A southern moon is a sodden moon, and sultry. When it swamps the fields and the rustling sandy roads and the sticky honeysuckle hedges in its sweet stagnation, your fight to hold on to reality is like a protestation against a first waft of ether.

Why do we spend years using up our bodies to nurture our minds with experience and find our minds turning then to our exhausted bodies for solace?

Women, despite the fact that nine out of ten of them go through life with a death-bed air either of snatching-the-last-moment or with martyr-resignation, do not die tomorrow--or the next day. They have to live on to any one of many bitter ends.

It is the loose ends with which men hang themselves.

I suppose all we can really share with people is a taste for the same kinds of weather.

The trouble with emergencies is," she said, "that I always put on my finest underwear and then nothing happens.

I remember every single spot of light that ever gouged a shadow beside your bones.