I don’t suppose I really know you very well - but I know you smell like the delicious damp grass that grows near old walls and that your hands are beautiful opening out of your sleeves and that the back of your head is a mossy sheltered cave when there is trouble in the wind and that my cheek just fits the depression in your shoulder.

I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs.

People are like almanacs, Bonnie - you never can find the information you're looking for, but the casual reading is well worth the trouble.

It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.

I believed I was a salamander, and it seems I am nothing but an impediment.

Women sometimes seem to share a quiet, unalterable dogma of persecution that endows even the most sophisticated of them with the inarticulate poignancy of the peasant.

There's nothing on earth to do here but look at the view and eat. You can imagine the result since I do not like to look at views.