I can't write if someone else is in the house, not even the cleaning woman.

In view of the fact that I surround myself with numbskulls now, I shall die among numbskulls, and on my deathbed shall be surrounded by numbskulls who will not understand what I am saying ... Whom am I sleeping with these days ? Franz Kafka.

Therese had read about that special pleasure people got from the fact that someone they loved was attractive in the eyes of other people, too. She simply didn't have it.

She probably had all the time in the world, Therese thought, probably did nothing all day but what she felt like doing.

In the middle of the block, she opened the door of a coffee shop, but they were playing one of the songs she had heard with Carol everywhere, and she let the door close and walked on. The music lived, but the world was dead. And the song would die one day, she thought, but how would the world come back to life? How would its salt come back?

Mr Greenleaf was such a decent fellow himself, he took it for granted that everybody else in the world was decent, too. Tom had almost forgotten such people existed.

He remembered deciding then that the world was full of Simon Legrees, and that you had to be an animal, as tough as the gorillas who worked with him at the warehouse, or starve.

Did the world always mete out just deserts?

I know that Southern redhead type, Bruno said, poking at his apple pie.

I didn't hang around films. I don't know if I'd ever seen Hitchcock's The Lady Vanishes.

I tell him his business, all business, is legalized throat-cutting, like marriage is legalized fornication.

Our actions and responsibilities are our own; what later returns to either haunt or applaud us is neither possible to predict nor always completely understandable.

When I am thickening my plots, I like to think 'What if...What if...' Thus my imagination can move from the likely, which everyone can think of, to the unlikely-but-possible, my preferred plot.

You ask if I miss you. I think of your voice, your hands, and your eyes when you look straight into mine. I remember your courage that I hadn't suspected, and it gives me courage.

What chance combination of shadow and sound and his own thoughts had created it?

Perhaps it was freedom itself that choked her.

One's just supposed to conform. I know what they'd like, they'd like a blank they could fill in. A person already filled in disturbs them terribly.

Though all we have known is only a beginning.

You say you love me however I am and when I curse. I say I love you always, the person you are and the person you will become.

Therese could not think of a single question that would be proper to ask, because all her questions were so enormous.

It always gets late with you. - Is that a compliment?

It is then good to remember that artists have existed and persisted, like the snail and coelacanth and other changing forms of organic life since long before governments were dreamed of.

Anticipation! It occurred to him that his anticipation was more pleasant to him than the experiencing.

She thought of people she had seen holding hands in movies, and why shouldn't she and Carol?

There's no such thing as a perfect murder, Tom said to Reeves. That's just a parlor game, trying to dream one up. Of course you could say there are a lot of unsolved murders. That's different.

A book is not a thing of one sitting, like a poem, but a longish thing which takes time and energy and since it takes skill, too, the first effort or maybe the second may not find a market.

My story can move fast, as I can't, it can have a reasonable and perhaps perfect solution, as mine can't. A solution that is somehow satisfying, as my personal solution never can be.

I have no television - I hate it.

My imagination functions much better when I don't have to speak to people.

At any rate, Therese thought, she was happier than she ever had been before. And why worry about defining everything?

I do not understand people who like to make noise; consequently I fear them, and since I fear them, I hate them.

Yet the way she felt about Carol passed all the tests for love and fitted all the descriptions.

I don't set the alarm to get up. I get up when I feel like it.

Love was supposed to be a kind of blissful insanity.

They roared into the Lincoln Tunnel. A wild, inexplicable excitement mounted in Therese as she stared through the windshield. She wished the tunnel might cave in and kill them both, that their bodies might be dragged out together. She felt Carol glancing at her from time to time.

I know you have it in you, Guy," Anne said suddenly at the end of a silence, "the capacity to be terribly happy.

What was it to love someone, what was love exactly, and why did it end or not end? Those were the real questions, and who could answer them?

I like to drink when I travel. It enhances things, don't you think?

And she did not have to ask if this were right, no one had to tell her, because this could not have been more right or perfect.

I don't think Ripley is gay. He appreciates good looks in other men, that's true. But he's married in later books. I'm not saying he's very strong in the sex department. But he makes it in bed with his wife.

I hope it will be set in California. In a way, I made a mistake, because a New Jersey policeman can't operate that way in New York. But in California, he can move between different counties.

I hated cracking the whip, and these juries turn into political things.

-the sense that everyone was incommunicado with everyone else and living on an entirely wrong plane, so that the meaning, the message, the love, or whatever it was that each life contained, never could find its expression.

Death was only one more adventure untried.

I have been sadder than any man could be: for nothing in the world was made for me.

The flowers you gave me—they died.

Ripley is married. And he's not lost. He has his feet on the ground.

Honestly, I don't understand why people get so worked up about a little murder!

The taste of Scotch, though Guy didn't much care for it, was pleasant because it reminded him of Anne. She drank Scotch, when she drank. It was like her, golden, full of light, made with careful art.