You aren't ill: it is just that you are made of second-rate materials

No adultery is bloodless.

Today, as never before, the fates of men are so intimately linked to one another that a disaster for one is a disaster for everybody.

Every day silence harvests its victims. Silence is a mortal illness.

But that was the best time of my life, and only now that it has gone from me forever -- only now do I realize it.

I think of a writer as a river: you reflect what passes before you.

Over my real sorrows I never weep.

And we are a people without tears. The things that moved our parents do not move us at all.

My tidiness, and my untidiness, are full of regret and remorse and complex feelings.

We become adolescents when the words that adults exchange with one another become intelligible to us.

I begin to suspect that England is the most melancholy country in the world.

It is odd how, when you have a secret belief of your own which you do not wish to acknowledge, the voicing of it by someone else will rouse you to a fury of denial.

I am married to work.

Let the boy win his spurs.

You're not me. You can't feel like I feel." "I can feel." "No you can't. You just choose not to feel or something and everything's fine." "It's not fine. It's just not so bad.

Sin makes us moral quadriplegics.

When you create a business, you create something that improves the life of your customer, of another person, maybe of ten people, of a thousand people, of a million people. There's no higher calling.

I have always admired the way women put outfits together.

Wow," Liv said, when I dropped the mallet back into the drawer. "That looked like fun. I call dibs on the next over-the-top destruction of evidence.

I know you heard what you thought I said, but what I said isn't what I meant.

If death itself were to die, would it have a ghost, and would the ghost of death visit the dead in the guise of someone alive, if only to fright them from any temptation to return?