I had written all I was going to write, if the truth had been known, and there is nothing wrong with that. If more writers knew that, the world would be saved a lot of bad books, and more people--men and women alike--could go on to happier, more prod...
They may already know too much about their mother and father--nothing being more factual than divorce, where so much has to be explained and worked through intelligently (though they have tried to stay equable). I've noticed this is often the time wh...
Cynicism makes you feel smart, I know it, even when you aren't smart.
I know you can dream your way through an otherwise fine life, and never wake up, which is what I almost did.
Dreaminess is, among other things, a state of suspended recognition, and a response to too much useless and complicated factuality. Its symptoms can be a long-term interest in the weather, or a sustained soaring feeling, or a bout of the stares that ...
We are past the end of things now, but I don't want to leave.
It was if we all sensed we'd be gone someday soon in a sudden instant--often it happened in the middle of the night--and didn't want to get involved. Or else it was that none of us wanted to know anybody later on who was the way we were now.
If you lose all hope, you can always find it again.
Some things can't be explained. They just are. And after a while they disappear, usually forever, or become interesting in another way. Literature's consolations are always temporary, while life is quick to begin again. It is better not even to look ...
What was our life like? I almost don't remember now. Though I remember , the space of time it occupied. And I remember it fondly.
Then, what's the matter?' I wonder, in fact, how many times I have said that or something equal to it to a woman passing palely through my life. Love is what this means, of course. Or at least, second best: surrender. Or at the least, take some time ...
People surprise you, Frank, with just how fuckin stupid they are.
We do not, after all, deal in truths, only potentialities. Too much truth can be worse than death, and last longer.
She understood perfectly that when the object of anticipation becomes paramount, trouble begins to lurk like a panther.
It is no loss to mankind when one writer decides to call it a day. When a tree falls in the forest, who cares but the monkeys?
