All Good Novelists Have Bad Memories.

To Comfort Me Is Like The Wrong Memory At The Wrong Place Or Time: If One Is Lonely One Prefers Discomfort.

Childhood Was The Germ Of All Mistrust. You Were Cruelly Joked Upon And Then You Cruelly Joked. You Lost The Remembrance Of Pain Through Inflicting It.

It Was Like Having A Box Of Chocolates Shut In The Bedroom Drawer. Until The Box Was Empty It Occupied The Mind Too Much.

He Entered The Territory Of Lies Without A Passport For Return.

I Write About Situations That Are Common, Universal Might Be More Correct, In Which My Characters Are Involved And From Which Only Faith Can Redeem Them, Though Often The Actual Manner Of The Redemption Is Not Immediately Clear. They Sin, But There Is No Limit To God's Mercy And Because This Is Important, There Is A Difference Between Not Confessing In Fact, And The Complacent And The Pious May Not Realize It.