We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.

I enjoy going back and forth between plays and novels. It`s like having a wife and a mistress. Books are the wife; plays, the mistress.

Later, going home, I realized they didn't look alike at all; what made them seem to was the aftermath of stress and the lingering of sorrow. It's strange how pain marks our faces, and makes us look like family.

No one ever does live happily ever after, but we leave the children to find that out for themselves.

I stood for almost an hour in a line of shuffling, bitter - eyed late mailers (Christmas is such a carefree, low - pressure time - that's one of the things I love about it).

The situation comes first...the characters...come next...[then] begin to narrate.

It's hard enough for a person to keep their own socks pulled up, let alone someone else's.