Randolph," he said, "were you ever as young as me?" And Randolph said: "I was never so old.

There is such an animal as a nonstylist, only they're not writers - they're typists.

I thought that Mr. Clutter was a very nice gentleman. I thought so right up to the moment that I cut his throat.

To wake up one morning and feel that I was a last a grown-up person, emptied of resentment, vengeful thoughts and other wasteful childish emotions. To find myself, in other words, an adult. Truman Capote

would you reach in the drawer there and give me my purse. A girl doesn't read this sort of thing without her lipstick.

I hated Hemingway. I liked Faulkner but he was a bore.

Reading dreams. That's what started her walking down the road. Every day she'd walk a little further: a mile, and come home. Two miles, and come home. One day she just kept on.