Change is not always progress. . . . A fever of newness had been everywhere confused with the spirit of progress.
Rome was a poem pressed into service as a city.
Ruefulness is one of the classical tones of American fiction. It fosters a native, deglamorized form of anxiety.
A whole generation of writers dined out on the dialectic between original cultures and their culture by "progress.
Sex almost always disappoints me in novels. Everything can be said or done now, and that's what I often find: everything, a feeling of generality or dispersal. But in my experience, true sex is so particular, so peculiar to the person who yearns for it. Only he or she, and no one else, would desire so very much that very person under those circumstances. In fiction, I miss that sense of terrific specificity.
People. . . have no idea what a hard job it is for two writers to be friends. Sooner or later you have to talk about each other's work.
There is something about seeing real people on a stage that makes a bad play more intimately, more personally offensive than any other art form.
O Woman, you are not merely the handiwork of God, but also of men; these are ever endowing you with beauty from their own hearts. . . You are one-half woman and one-half dream.
Most traditional Scottish food is designed to use things that are just about to go. . . off.
You need to be surrounded by good advisers, but you also need to trust your instinct.
And so on, until you arrive at the other side, among the purely abstract self-harming: the grinding over your failures, the refusal to remember anything good, the determination to ensure - if anyone falls into the mistake of making it clear they actually like you - that the next time round they change their opinion pronto. Emotional self-cannibalism, in other words, like those tessellated pictures of a person grappling with a mirror image of himself.