I Know You Shouldn't Spit In Your

We Buy Things. We Wear Them Or Put Them On Our Walls, Or Sit On Them, But Anyone Who Wants To Can Take Them Away From Us. Or Break Them. ... Long After He's Dead, Someone Else Will Own Those Stupid Little Boxes, And Then Someone After Him, Just As Someone Owned Them Before He Did. But No One Ever Thinks Of That: Objects Survive Us And Go On Living. It's Stupid To Believe We Own Them. And It's Sinful For Them To Be So Important.

I Do Not Take Any Pleasure Whatsoever In Being A Famous Person.

So Much Of Contemporary Crime Fiction Is Painful To Read And Obsessed With Violence, Particularly Against Women, And I Can't Read That.

And Off In The Far Distance, The Gold On The Wings Of The Angel Atop The Bell Tower Of San Marco Flashed In The Sun, Bathing The Entire City In Its Glistening Benediction.

I Was At La Fenice Opera House Back In 1991 With Friends, And We Started Talking About A Conductor Whom None Of Us Liked. Somehow There Was An Escalation, And We Started Talking About How To Kill Him, Where To Kill Him. This Struck Me As A Good Idea For A Book.