No one ever tells you that: that there’s no method. Writing’s a lawless place.

But writers and their woes: they couldn't be parted. Not for anything.

Children, Hadley thinks to herself, children are more civilised than this gang on the sauce.

She kissed him but he didn't seem to recognize it.

The hangover: such a cure, she thinks, for overthinking.

Talents too many, not enough of any.

The longer I don't write, the more I hurt.

I want to be a good man, a good writer.""Be one or the other, Ernest, not both.

No man should be asked to live with so much sadness, and with so little promise of relief.

Ernest chose to go, she finally thinks, watching the fire turn the papers black. He loved her but he could not live anymore.

Martha thanks Sylvia, gesturing with the book. "Just remember not to try to hard with understanding it, " Sylvia says. "Like people, they're best not to be too thoroughly understood.

Women have always been spies.

The gods cared nothing for those they touched. Especially war gods.

A charge to keep I have, A God to glorify; A never dying soul to save, And fit it for the sky.

Among austere men intimacy involves shame--and is something precious.

Buddhism has turned me on to my humanness, and is challenging my humanness so that I can become more human.

I do three things. I do teaching, I do conducting and I do playing. And each one of those sort of helps the other.

One may make their house a palace of sham, or they can make it a home, a refuge.

As an actor, at least from my standpoint, I can't not like who I'm playing.

Lying about things large and small has become so accepted by so many that they even lie about lying.

What good is a friend if you cant make an enemy of him?