Oh, I adore to cook. It makes me feel so mindless in a worthwhile way.
I well understand why analysts demand high payment, for what can be more tedious than listening to another person recount his dreams?
She is pure Alice in Wonderland, and her appearance and demeanor are a nicely judged mix of the Red Queen and a Flamingo.
That's not bad. I can't get excited by a man until he's forty-two.
Oscar Wilde is one of the people that I would have most liked to know. I'm sure I would have liked him a lot.
We all, sometimes, leave each other there under the skies, and we never understand why.
I believe in hanging. Just so long as I'm not the one being hanged.
If some wizard would like to give me a present, let him give me a bottle filled with the voices of that kitchen, the ha ha ha and the fire whispering, a bottle brimming with its buttery sugary smells . . .
Oh Jesus God we did belong to each other. He was mine.
My preferred pastimes are conversation, reading, travel and writing, in that order.
I'd rather have cancer than a dishonest heart. Which isn't being pious. Just practical. Cancer may cool you, but the other's sure to.
I want to still be me when I wake up one fine morning and have breakfast at Tiffany's.
You are a human being with a free will. Which puts you above the animal level. But if you live your life without feeling and compassion for your fellowman—you are as an animal—an.
A plaster girl with intense glass eyes sat astride a bicycle pedaling at the maddest pace; though its wheel spokes spun hypnotically, the bicycle of course never budged: all that effort and the poor girl going nowhere. It was a pitifully human situation, and one that Sylvia could so exactly identify with herself that she always felt a real pang.
Holly had married him: well, well. I wished I were under the wheels of the train.
Shoot, boy, the country's just fulla folks what knows everything, and don't understand nothing, just fullofem.
Fitzgerald has charm. It's a silly word, but it's an exact word for me. I like 'The Great Gatsby' and it's sad, gay nostalgia.
Never love a wild thing... If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky.
Very few authors, especially the unpublished, can resist an invitation to read aloud.
I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil.
Nothing is more usual than to feel that others have shared in our failures, just as it is an ordinary reaction to forget those who have shared in our achievements.
No one I remember still lives there except Madame Sapphia Spanella, a husky coloratura who every afternoon went roller-skating in Central Park.
A conversation is a dialogue, not a monologue. That's why there are so few good conversations: due to scarcity, two intelligent talkers seldom meet.
His voice with its Cuban accent was soft and sweet as a banana.
I think the whole student rebellion is not really a rebellion at all....They want a certain kind of identity; they're jockeying with each other for political power in their own culture. The basis for this behavior is a desire for notoriety.
I didn't know ten people who had radios.
The stars were his pleasure, but tonight they did not comfort him; they did not make him remember that what happens to us on earth is lost in the endless shine of eternity. Gazing at them-the stars-he thought of the jewelled guitar and its worldly glitter.
Freedom may be the most important thing in life, but there's such a thing as too much freedom.
He'd always been willing to confess his faults, for, by admitting them, it was as if he made them no longer exist.
I'll wager at the end a body realizes the Lord has already shown Himself. That things as they are -- her hand circles in a gesture that gathers clouds and kites and grass and Queenie pawing earth over her bone - just what they've always seen, was seeing Him. As for me, I could leave the world with today in my eyes.
There's lots of things you don't know. All kinds of strange things . . . mostly they happened before we were born: that makes them seem to me so much more real.
Of all things this was the saddest, that life goes on: if one leaves one's lover, life should stop for him, and if one disappears from the world, then the world should stop, too: and it never did. And that was the real reason for most people getting up in the morning: not because it would matter but because it wouldn't.
What I found does the most good is just to get into a taxi and go to Tiffany's. It calms me down right away, the quietness and the proud look of it;nothing very bad could happen to you there.
Writing stopped being fun when I discovered the difference between good writing and bad and, even more terrifying, the difference between it and true art. And after that, the whip came down.
I haven't anything against whores, except this: some of them may have an honest tongue but they all have dishonest hearts.
That is why, walking across a school campus on this particular December morning, I keep searching the sky. As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven.
Reading dreams. That's what started her walking down the road. Every day she'd walk a little further: a mile, and come home. Two miles, and come home. One day she just kept on.
We huddle in the bed, and she squeezes my hand I-love-you.
Everybody has to feel superior to somebody," she said. "But it's customary to present a little proof before you take the privilege.
But I'm not a saint yet. I'm an alcoholic. I'm a drug addict. I'm homosexual. I'm a genius.
Time. Time. What is time? Swiss manufacture it, French hoard it, Italians squander it, Americans say it is money. Hindus say it does not exist. Know what I say? I say time is a crook.
It was like the time he'd failed algebra and felt so relieved, so free: failure was definite, a certainty, and there is always peace in certainties.
I don't mean I'd mind being rich and famous. That's very much on my schedule and someday I'll try to get around to it.
For us, death is stronger than life, it pulls like a wind through the dark, all our cries burlesqued in joyless laugther; and with the garbage of liveliness stuffed down us untill our guts burst bleeding green, we go screaming round the world, dying, in our rented rooms, nightmare hotels, eternal homes of the transient heart.
Dreams are the mind of the soul and the secret truth about us.
Randolph," he said, "were you ever as young as me?" And Randolph said: "I was never so old.
Like many people with a bold fondness for volunteering intimate information, anything that suggested a direct question, a pinning-down, put her on guard.
Anyone who ever gave you confidence, you owe them a lot.
Those fellows, they're always crying over killers. Never a thought for the victims.
