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

I thought of my mother (...). Freud wrote that no man is secure in the love of his mother can ever be a failure. Well, I had been busy proving that theory wrong.

You're all I care about," I said. "No. And me. The person I am when I'm with you, the way I see myself and know myself. That person who lives only when I'm with you.

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.

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.

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.