In talking about the past, we lie with every breath we draw.

Because I actively enjoy sleeping, dreams, the unexplainable dialogues that take place in my head as I am drifting off, all that, I tell myself that lying down to an afternoon nap that goes on and on through eternity is not something to be concerned about. What spoils this pleasant fancy is the recollection that when people are dead they don't read books. This I find unbearable.

I am the cat that walks alone.

My younger daughter told me recently that when she was a child she thought the typewriter was a toy that I went into my room and closed the door and played with.

If you turn the imagination loose like a hunting dog, it will often return with the bird in its mouth.

Satin and lace and brown velvet and the faint odor of violets. That was all which was left to him of his love.

The reason life is so strange is that so often people have no choice.