Everything Human Is Alien To Me.

January. It Was All Things. And It Was One Thing, Like A Solid Door. Its Cold Sealed The City In A Gray Capsule. January Was Moments, And January Was A Year. January Rained The Moments Down, And Froze Them In Her Memory: [...]every Human Action Seemed To Yield A Magic. January Was A Two-faced Month, Jangling Like Jester's Bells, Crackling Like Snow Crust, Pure As Any Beginning, Grim As An Old Man, Mysteriously Familiar Yet Unknown, Like A Word One Can Almost But Not Quite Define.

I Think People Often Try To Find Through Sex Things That Are Much Easier To Find In Other Ways.

Honesty, For Me, Is Usually The Worst Policy Imaginable.

The First Person You Should Think Of Pleasing, In Writing A Book, Is Yourself. If You Can Amuse Yourself For The Length Of Time It Takes To Write A Book, The Publisher And The Readers Can And Will Come Later.

I Have Graham Greene's Telephone Number, But I Wouldn't Dream Of Using It. I Don't Seek Out Writers Because We All Want To Be Alone.