It seems to me that my lack of faith is not, as I once thought, a triumph of the rational mind, but rather a failure of the imagination - an inability to tolerate mistery.

Always mind the distance between your dreams and your reality.

For most people, honesty is such an unusual departure from their standard modus operandi - such an abherration in their workaday mendacity - that they feel obliged to alert you when a moment of sincerity is coming on.

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

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.

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

We are bound by the secrets we share.