She can't help it,' he said. 'She's got the soul of a poet and the emotional makeup of a junkyard dog.

Sometimes [...] real love is silent as well as blind.

They say that loving eyes can never see, but that's a fool's axiom. Sometimes, they see too much

Give me just enough information so that I can lie convincingly.

The late afternoon sunlight, warm as oil, sweet as childhood.

Go then, there are other worlds than these.

Life turns on a dime. Sometimes towards us, but more often it spins away, flirting and flashing as it goes: so long, honey, it was good while it lasted, wasn’t it?