A writer needs three things, experience, observation, and imagination, any two of which, at times any one of which, can supply the lack of the others.

I decline to accept the end of man.

The scattered tea goes with the leaves and every day a sunset dies.

Did you ever have a sister? did you?

And I will look down and see my murmuring bones and the deep water like wind, like a roof of wind, and after a long time they cannot distinguish even bones upon the lonely and inviolate sand.

When I have one martini, I feel bigger, wiser, taller. When I have a second, I feel superlative. When I have more, there's no holding me.

The past isn't over. It isn't even past.