I just think I'm better equipped to make a study of human personality than trying to get into the mind of animals.

Being the survivor stinks.

Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

I am further back, surrounded on all sides by wailing men, their faces shiny with tears. Uncle Al promised three dollars and a bottle of Canadian whiskey to the man who puts on the best show. You've never seen such grief-- even the dogs were howling.

When two people are meant to be together, they will be together. It's fate.

The only thing that makes me crazier than writing is not writing.

I used to think I preferred getting old to the alternative, but now I'm not sure. Sometimes the momotony of bingo and sing-alongs and ancient dusty people parked in the hallway in wheelchairs makes me long for death. Particularly when I rememver that I'm one of the ancient dusty people, filed away like some worthless tchotchke.