I thought there's something to be said for honor in this world where there doesn't seem to be any honor left. I thought that maybe happiness wasn't really anything more than the knowledge of a life well spent, in spite of whatever immediate discomfort you had to undergo, and that if a life well spent meant compromises and conciliations and reconciliations, and suffering at the hands of the person you love, well then better that than live without honor.

The stigma of self-inflicted death is for some people a hateful blot that demands erasure at all costs.

The good writing of any age has always been the product of someone's neurosis.

I think that one of the compelling themes of fiction is this confrontation between good and evil.

The weather of Depression is unmodulated, its light a brownout.

We would have to settle for the elegant goal of becoming ourselves.

What I really mean is that a great book should leave you with many experiences, and slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it.