She was never without dark glasses, she was always well groomed, there was a consequential good taste in the plainness of her clothes, the blues and grays and lack of luster that made her, herself, sh...
I believe in hanging. Just so long as I'm not the one being hanged.
When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended for self-flagellation solely.
Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.
Чарли каза, че обичта е низ от обич.
We huddle in the bed, and she squeezes my hand I-love-you.
The blues are because you're getting fat or maybe it's been raining too long. You're sad, that's all. But the mean reds are horrible. You're afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don't know what you...
But if Miss Golightly remained unconscious of my existence, except as a doorbell convenience, I became, through the summer, rather an authority on hers. I discovered, from observing the trash-basket o...
Fame is only good for one thing - they will cash your check in a small town.
To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the music the words make.
I tell you, my dear, Narcissus was no egoist… he was merely another of us who, in our unshatterable isolation, recognized, on seeing his reflection, the one beautiful comrade, the only inseparable lov...
I felt infuriatingly left out -- a tugboat in drydock while she, glittery voyager of secure destination, steamed down the harbor with whistles whistling and confetti in the air.
In California everyone goes to a therapist is a therapist or is a therapist going to a therapist.
Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it.
To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music that words make.
We don't belong to each other: he's an independent, and so am I.
You can love somebody without it being like that. You keep them a stranger, a stranger who's a friend.
Very few authors, especially the unpublished, can resist an invitation to read aloud.
Oh Jesus God we did belong to each other. He was mine.
June, July, all through the warm months she hibernated like a winter animal who did not know spring had come and gone.