I Have No Useful Theories About Love

He's One Of Those Smart, Drifty Young People Who, After Certain Deliberations, Decides He Wants To Do Something In The Arts But Won't, Possibly Can't, Think In Terms Of An Actual Job; Who Seems To Imagine That Youth And Brains And Willingness Will Simply Summon An Occupation, The Precise And Perfect Nature Of Which Will Reveal Itself In Its Own Time.

A Certain Slightly Cruel Disregard For The Feelings Of Living People Is Simply Part Of The Package. I Think A Writer, If Hes Any Good, Is Not An Entirely Benign Entity In The World.

The Secret Of Flight Is This -- You Have To Do It Immediately, Before Your Body Realizes It Is Defying The Laws.

There Is Just This For Consolation: An Hour Here Or There, When Our Lives Seem, Against All Odds And Expectations, To Burst Open And Give Us Everything We've Ever Imagined , Though Everyone But Children (and Perhaps Even They) Knows These Hours Will Inevitably Be Followed By Others, Far Darker And More Difficult. Still, We Cherish The City, The Morning, We Hope, More Than Anything, For More. Heaven Only Knows Why We Love It So.

You Grow Weary Of Being Treated As The Enemy Simply Because You Are Not Young Anymore; Because You Dress Unexceptionally.