Every man has a right to keep his own sentiments if he pleases.

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?

Do you know what the definition of insane is? Yes. It’s the inability to relate to another human being. It’s the inability to love.

If you haven't written a novel by the time you're forty you never will!

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

What a subtle, treacherous thing it was to let yourself go that way! Because once you've started it was terribly difficult to stop; soon you were saying "I'm sorry, of course you're right", and "Whatever you think is best", and "you're the most wonderful and valuable thing int he world", and the next thing you knew all honesty, all truth, was as far away and glimmering, as hopelessly unattainable as the world of the golden people.

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.