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

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.

There are certain people in whom you can detect the seeds of madness - seeds that have remained dormant only because the people in question have lived relatively comfortable, middle class lives. They function perfectly well in the world, but you can imagine, given a nasty parent, or a prolonged bout of unemployment, how their potential for craziness might have been realized.

It's always a disappointing business confronting my own reflection. My body isn't bad. It's a perfectly nice, serviceable body. It's just that the external me- the study, lightly wrinkled, handbagged me- does so little credit to the stuff that's inside.

Always mind the distance between your dreams and your reality.

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