I'm not a philosopher.

In California everyone goes to a therapist, is a therapist, or is a therapist going to a therapist.

He loved her, he loved her, and until he'd loved her she had never minded being alone.

I'm sure Proust was a big bore.

When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended for self-flagellation solely.

I've lived a lot in communist countries and they're intensely interested in money. I think they are more interested in money than capitalists are. They're the most materialistic people in the world. What they're actually living for is material things. The irony of that is that in communist countries there isn't anything to buy.

I think the only person a writer has an obligation to is himself. If what I write doesn't fulfill something in me, if I don't honestly feel it's the best I can do, then I'm miserable.