The trouble with excuses, however, is that they become inevitably difficult to believe after they’ve been used a couple of times.

A novelist is someone who sits around the house all day in his underwear, trying not to smoke.

The only things I regret, and the only things I'll ever regret are things I didn't do. In the end, that's what we mourn. The paths we didn't take. The people we didn't touch.

No pain could match the emptiness of separation, no agony rivaled the unreality of not being with her.

All I wanted was what I'd already had. That exultation, that love. It was my one real home; I was a visitor everywhere else.

It was a once in a lifetime thing. I hate to think it but I bet it's true. It's too bad for us that our once in a lifetime happened when were too young to handle it.

Everything creepy and Southern isn't Faulknerian, just like everything annoying isn't Kafkaesque.