I’m going to kill myself. I should go to Paris and jump off the Eiffel Tower. I’ll be dead. you know, in fact, if I get the Concorde, I could be dead three hours earlier, which would be perfect. Or wait a minute. It -- with the time change, I could be alive for six hours in New York but dead three hours in Paris. I could get things done, and I could also be dead.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing here. I'm 237 years old, I should be collecting social security.

The heart is a very, very resilient little muscle. It really is.

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 giving [my analyst] one more year--then I'm going to Lourdes.

And my parents finally realize I'm kidnapped and they snap into action immediately: They rent out my room.

There are worse things than death. Many of them playing at a theater near you.