I cannot help feeling there is something essentially wrong about love. Friends may quarrel or drift apart, close relations too, but there is not this pang, this pathos, this fatality which clings to love. Friendship never has that doomed look. Why, what is the matter? I have not stopped loving you, but because I cannot go on kissing your dim dear face, we must part, we must part.

Do not be awed by giant predecessors. Be ill-tempered with their renown. Point out flaws. Frighten interviewers from Time. Appear in Playboy. Sell to the movies.

I think she always nursed a small mad hope.

You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.

The tiny madman in his padded cell.

Genius is finding the invisible link between things.

Don't touch me; I'll die if you touch me.