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.

One always likes one's latest book best. That's a natural feeling.

It snowed all week. Wheels and footsteps moved soundlessly on the street, as if the business of living continued secretly behind a pale but impenetrable curtain. In the falling quiet there was no sky or earth, only snow lifting in the wind, frosting the window glass, chilling the rooms, deadening and hushing the city. At all hours it was necessary to keep a lamp lighted, and Mrs. Miller lost track of the days: Friday was no different from Saturday and on Sunday she went to the grocery: closed, of course.

She sounds the way bananas taste.

I haven't anything against whores, except this: some of them may have an honest tongue but they all have dishonest hearts.

[L]ove, having no geography, knows no boundaries.

Some prisons don't allow guitar because the strings can be detached and used as weapons.