Hard work, is the best medicine yet devised for all the ills of man- and of woman.

I'm only interested in stories that are about the crushing of the human heart.

And do you know a funny thing? I'm almost fifty years old and I've never understood anything in my whole life.

She just happened to feel like it. Wasn’t that after all, the only reason there was? Had she ever had a less selfish, more complicated reason for doing anything in her life?

Dying for love might be pitiable, but it wasn't much different, finally, from any other kind of dying.

It haunted him all night, while he slept alone; it was still there in the morning, when he swallowed his coffee and backed down the driveway in the crumpled old Ford. And riding to work, one of the youngest and healthiest passengers on the train, he sat with the look of a man condemned to a very slow, painless death. He felt middle-aged.

The hell with "love" anyway, and with every other phony, time-wasting, half-assed emotion in the world.