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

Always mind the distance between your dreams and your reality.

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

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.

I don't write books for people to be friends with the characters. If you want to find friends, go to a cocktail party.

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.

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