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 you live alone, your furnishings, your possessions, are always confronting you with the thinness of your existence.

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

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

Somewhere between sanity and madness lays a fine line, for some it is a tightrope walked daily, a fight for balance to be won or lost. That fight is lost one of two ways. Some simply lose their balance and fall, others are pushed.

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.

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