That’s one of the nice things about writing, or any art; if the thing’s real, it just lives. All the attendant hoopla about it, the success over it or the critical rejection—none of that really matters. In the end, the thing will survive or not on its own merits. Not that immortality via art is any big deal. Truffaut died, and we all felt awful about it, and there were the appropriate eulogies, and his wonderful films live on. But it’s not much help to Truffaut.

I'm a big believer in supporting the action on film with the appropriate music. It covers a multitude of sins. It's gotten me out of a lot of jams, over the years. So, music for me is a very big thing in films and I use it unashamedly.

I took a puff of the wrong cigarette at a fraternity dance once, and the cops had to get me, y'know. I broke two teeth trying to give a hickie to the Statue of Liberty.

Life is a concentration camp. You're stuck here and there's no way out and you can only rage impotently against your persecutors.

The wicked at heart probably know something.

For God sakes, this is a woman I was married to for 10 years. We made love. I'd hold her head over the toilet bowl when she threw up.

When I am in New York, I want to be in Europe, and when I am in Europe, I want to be in New York.