Memory is a great deceiver: it embroiders until naught is left but the glory and the pleasure.

It seems to me that women are freed from their responsibilities only when they are merry widows or eccentric old spinsters.

Two bones fell down my chimney and into the bedroom this morning. Hysterical thing to happen to a thriller writer. Murderous ravens perhaps?

As a reader I like both great characterization and fast moving plots. The challenge is to balance the both and not compromise one for the other.

Humiliation scars deeper than the lash.

Be bad, and if you can't be bad be worse.

This may be the very nature of love, a passion as fickle as the sea, full of certainty when the object of desire is absent, yet dubious when confronted again with the lover's presence.