A surfeit of information often hides an untruth,” he said, with annoying clarity.

I have a very varied taste in music. Everything from rap to classical to Latino to Rat Pack to jazz.

Two minds with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one.

Defiance through compliance.

Love is a wonderful thing, my dear, but it leaves you wide open for blackmail.

The cucumber and the tomato are both fruit; the avocado is a nut. To assist with the dietary requirements of vegetarians, on the first Tuesday of the month a chicken is officially a vegetable.

Books may look like nothing more than words on a page, but they are actually an infinitely complex imaginotransference technology that translates odd, inky squiggles into pictures inside your head.

If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher. Overlong, detailed to the point of distraction-and ultimately, without a major resolution.

I collect ex-boyfriends -- and more than five, at last count.

If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher.

Have you ever wondered how nostalgia isn"t what it used to be?

To take for granted one's blessings is a damage to the soul, and in time one will lose them, simply from lack of care. One should never tire of nourishing and treasuring all that is lovely.

A long life in journalism convinced me many presidents ago that there should be a large air space between a journalist and the head of a state.

Trust God in the dark until the light returns.

New York is vibrant, sexy, naughty, always surprising, and has great live music and great fashion.

In the criminal justice system you see the worst people on their best behavior, unlike the civil system, where the best people behave at their worst.

I think music influences fashion and has done so for generations.

I don't shoot kittens with balls of wool. I don't shoot sunsets. What draws me? Ironic, surreal, unexplained, timely moments.

The Christian faith is a grand cathedral with divinely pictured windows.

Worry clogs the brain and paralyzes the thought. A troubled brain can not think clearly, vigorously, locally.

You do not become a critic until it has been completely established to your own satisfaction that you cannot be a poet.