Shoot, boy, the country's just fulla folks what knows everything, and don't understand nothing, just fullofem.

Most contemporary novelists, especially the American and the French, are too subjective, mesmerized by private demons; theyre enraptured by their navels and confined by a view that ends with their own toes.

Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.

But mostly they were lies I told; it wasn't my fault, I couldn't remember, because it was as though I'd been to one of those supernatural castles visited by characters in legends: once away, you do not remember, all that is left is the ghostly echo of haunting wonder.

The way his plump hand clutched at her hip seemed somehow improper; not morally, aesthetically.

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

All literature is gossip.