You lied to him and you drank your cyanide like a little gentleman. You died like a poisoned rat, Harry, but you’re no rat to me. - Raymond Chandler

However hard I try to be nice I always end up with my nose in the dirt and my thumb feeling for somebody’s eye.

We were very much in love — the wild, mysterious, improbable kind of love that never comes but once.

I have a sense of exile from thought, a nostalgia of the quiet room and balanced mind. I am a writer, and there comes a time when that which I write has to belong to me, has to be written alone and in silence, with no one looking over my shoulder, no one telling me a better way to write it. It doesn't have to be great writing, it doesn't even have to be terribly good. It just has to be mine.