Chic Is A Convent For Unloved Women.

Sex Almost Always Disappoints Me In Novels. Everything Can Be Said Or Done Now, And That's What I Often Find: Everything, A Feeling Of Generality Or Dispersal. But In My Experience, True Sex Is So Particular, So Peculiar To The Person Who Yearns For It. Only He Or She, And No One Else, Would Desire So Very Much That Very Person Under Those Circumstances. In Fiction, I Miss That Sense Of Terrific Specificity.

The More I Like A Book, The More Slowly I Read. This Spontaneous Talking Back To A Book Is One Of The Things That Makes Reading So Valuable.

The More I Like A Book, The More Reluctant I Am To Turn The Page. Lovers, Even Book Lovers, Tend To Cling. No One-night Stands Or "reads" For Them.

Rome Was A Poem Pressed Into Service As A City.

Paranoids Are The Only Ones Who Notice Things Anymore.