All Good Novelists Have Bad Memories.

My Two Fingers On A Typewriter Have Never Connected With My Brain. My Hand On A Pen Does. A Fountain Pen, Of Course. Ball-point Pens Are Only Good For Filling Out Forms On A Plane.

But I'm A Bad Priest, You See. I Know--from Experience--how Much Beauty Satan Carried Down With Him When He Fell. Nobody Ever Said The Fallen Angels Were The Ugly Ones. Oh, No, They Were Just As Quick And Light And . . .

I Had To Touch You With My Hands, I Had To Taste You With My Tongue; One Can't Love And Do Nothing.

Pity Is Cruel. Pity Destroys.

He Entered The Territory Of Lies Without A Passport For Return.