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

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

He couldn't even tell whether he was angry or contrite, whether it was forgiveness he wanted or the power to forgive.

Can you really think artists and writers are the only people entitled to lives of their own?

It's a disease. Nobody thinks or feels or cares any more; nobody gets excited or believes in anything except their own comfortable little God damn mediocrity.

He knew it was possible for shame to be nursed and doctored like an illness, if you wanted to keep it separate from the rest of your life, but that didn't mean there'd be any way to keep from knowing it was there.

No one forgets the truth; they just get better at lying.