Never say anything that doesn't improve on silence.

There's never been anything funny about a woman dying for love.

Warren Cox, God knew, was no prize; a commercial person, a sales person, the kind of man who said things like "x numbers of dollars". At lunch today, laboriously trying to explain some business procedure, he had said "x number of dollars" three times.

Our ability to measure and apportion time affords an almost endless source of comfort.

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?

A man could rant and smash and grapple with the State Police, and still the sprinklers whirled at dusk on every lawn and the television droned in every living room.

Know what we did, Lucy? You and me? We spent our whole lives yearning. Isn't that the God damndest thing?