Nothing made me happen. I happened.

I think it's easy to mistake understanding for empathy - we want empathy so badly. Maybe learning to make that distinction is part of growing up. It's hard and ugly to know somebody can understand you without even liking you.

What does he do, Clarice? What is the first and principal thing he does, what need does he serve by killing? He covets. How do we begin to covet? We begin by coveting what we see every day.

You must understand that when you are writing a novel you are not making anything up. It's all there and you just have to find it.

I have no interest in understanding sheep, only eating them.

The tragedy is not to die, but to be wasted.

I would not have had that happen to you. Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.