We all, sometimes, leave each other there under the skies, and we never understand why.

That's all a writer has to write about - what he sees and hears and what not.

I thought that Mr. Clutter was a very nice gentleman. I thought so right up to the moment that I cut his throat.

I'm very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it could go on forever. Not knowing what's yours until you've thrown it away.

When I'm writing, I never write more than four hours a day.

all his prayers of the past had been simple concrete requests: God, give me a bicycle, a knife with seven blades, a box of oil paints. Only how, how, could you say something so indefinite, so meaningless as this: God, let me be loved.

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