Oh, Jacques, we're used to each other, we're a pair of captive hawks caught in the same cage, and so we've grown used to each other. That's what passes for love at this dim, shadowy end of the Camino Real.

I talk out the lines as I write them.

When so many are lonely as seem to be lonely, it would be inexcusably selfish to be lonely alone.

We have to distrust each other. It is our only defense against betrayal.

Everyone says he's sincere, but everyone isn't sincere. If everyone was sincere who says he's sincere there wouldn't be half so many insincere ones in the world and there would be lots, lots, lots more really sincere ones!

When I stop working the rest of the day is posthumous. I'm only really alive when I'm writing.

Oh, you can't describe someone you're in love with!