One of the most difficult things in writing a novel or anything at all is to choose the point of view from which it's going to be told.

The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries: weight and sink it deep, no matter, it will rise and find the surface.

I've tried to believe, but I don't, I can't, and there's no use pretending.

Poor slob without a name. It's a little inconvenient, his not having a name. But I haven't the right to give him one: he'll have to wait until he belongs to somebody. We just sort of took up by the river one day, we don't belong to each other: he's an independent, and so am I. I don't want to own anything until I know I've found the place where me and things belong together.

Love should be allowed. I’m all for it. Now that I’ve got a pretty good idea what it is.

Half the people who snuff people, that's what they want: recognition. Get their picture in the paper.

I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest heart. Which isn't being pious. Just practical. Cancer may cool you, but the other's sure to.