The best fiction is far more true than any journalism.

You like orchids?... Nasty things. Their flesh is too much like the flesh of men, their perfume has the rotten sweetness of corruption.

Now she hates me. I have taught her that, at least.

Tomorrow night is nothing but one long sleepless wrestle with yesterday's omissions and regrets.

Only the peak feels so sound and stable that the beginning of the falling is hidden for a little while.

He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.

If I were reincarnated, I'd want to come back a buzzard. Nothing hates him or envies him or wants him or needs him. He is never bothered or in danger, and he can eat anything.