They Think My Mother's Ashes Are Marijuana.

So Much Of A Novelist's Writing, As I Have Said, Takes Place In The Unconscious: In Those Depths The Last Word Is Written Before The First Word Appears On The Paper. We Remember Details Of Our Story, We Do Not Invent Them.

You Cannot Conceive, Nor Can I, Of The Appalling Strangeness Of The Mercy Of God.

They Haven't Left Us Much To Believe, Have They? — Even Disbelief. I Can't Believe In Anything Bigger Than A Home, Or Anything Vaguer Than A Human Being.

Morality Comes With The Sad Wisdom Of Age, When The Sense Of Curiosity Has Withered.

When I Began To Write Our Story Down, I Thought I Was Writing A Record Of Hate, But Somehow The Hate Has Got Mislaid And All I Know Is That In Spite Of Her Mistakes And Her Unreliability, She Was Better Than Most. It's Just As Well That One Of Us Should Believe In Her: She Never Did In Herself.