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.

We are bound by the secrets we share.

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

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.

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