I feel that all a writer has is his own experience.

Hot weather opens the skull of a city, exposing its white brain, and its heart of nerves, which sizzle like the wires inside a lightbulb. And there exudes a sour extra-human smell that makes the very stone seem flesh-alive, webbed and pulsing.

I've got something inside of me, peasantlike and stubborn, and I'm in it till the end of the race.

I'm sure Proust was a big bore.

I live in Brooklyn. By choice. Those ignorant of its allures are entitled to wonder why.

Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.

What I do requires fantastic concentration... but you can't be totally alone, or you lose all contact with reality, so even when I'm engrossed and secluded, Jack Dunphy can be there. He's my oldest and best friend, and best critic too.