Memories are like fireflies darting across the surface of my mind, showing me here and there images so sharp and vivid that I catch my breath in wonder before the vignette disappears, sinking like a pebble into the quicksand of regret and recrimination.

And it's really very difficult to kill someone when all your inner instincts would oblige you to take off your hat first!

Killing is like riding, you see. One never really loses the knack.

All beauty must have its imperfections, all happiness its share of sorrow.

Hell is not a place, it's a state of mind and body; hell is obsession with a voice, a face, a name.

None of us can choose where we shall love.

In point of fact I was a perfectly devoted and dutiful little Catholic—until the day I learned that animals have no souls.