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

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.

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

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.

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

We are bound by the secrets we share.

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