Growing old is not growing up.

Thoughts are the gun, words are the bullets, deeds are the target, the bulls-eye is heaven.

Desperation is like stealing from the Mafia: you stand a good chance of attracting the wrong attention.

Remember only the good, the bad will never forget you.

Looking back, one of the things I love most about my mom was that she never, ever relented. She stuck to her guns right up until the end. She wasn't abusive, but she was never that thrilled that I was gay.

When I look back now, it must have been like Paris was at the time of Le Sacre du Printemps.

But whatever the POV, and the difficulty of forcing the action into a particular frame, stay within it.

In the best writers, the outward-reaching interest in the 'found subject' leads back at a hairpin to some uncomfortable inner recognition that the writer has journeyed very far to see; he comes home half-dead.