...what is romance, but a mutual pact of delusion? When the pact ends , there's nothing left.

It's hard to resist the magical thinking that the work habits of great writers are the key to their greatness.

I'm a child in that respect: able to live, physically speaking, on a crumb of anticipation for weeks at a time, but always in danger of crushing the waited-for event with the freight of my excessive hope.

It's similar to the way you feel cuddling an infant or a kitten, when you want to squeeze it so hard you'd kill it.

If everybody was so reverent of the institute of marriage, how did all the adultery get committed?

When I tried to do something else, everyone behaved as if I was Gypsy Rose Lee trying to paint a Matisse.

...what is romance, but a mutual pact of delusion? When the pact ends , there's nothing left.