“You do not write a novel for praise, or thinking of your audience. You write for yourself; you work out between you and your pen the things that intrigue you”

“My books have all been very deeply felt. You don’t spend eight years of your life working on a trendy knockoff. In that sense I’ve been serious. But I don’t do lots of things that other serious writers do. I don’t write book reviews. I don’t sit on panels about the state of the novel. I don’t go to writer conferences. I don’t teach writing seminars. I don’t hang out at Yaddo or MacDowell. I’m not concerned with my reputation as a writer and where I stand relative to other writers. I’m not competitive or professionally ambitious. I don’t think about my work and my career in an overarching or systematic way. I don’t think about myself, as I think most writers do, as progressing toward some ideal of greatness. There’s no grand plan. All I know is that I write the books I want to write. All that other stuff is meaningless to me.”

“If you can’t make a girl come why even bother? That always seemed to me to be like writing questions in a letter.”

“Baby, when you were young and your heart was an open book, you used to say live and let live. You know you did, you know you did, you know you did.”

“Got you. You're mine now. For the rest of the day, week, month, year, life. Have you guessed who I am? Sometimes I think you have. Sometimes when you're standing in a crowd I feel those sultry, dark eyes of yours stop on me. Are you too afraid to come up to me and let me know how you feel? I want to moan and writhe with you and I want to go up to you and kiss your mouth and pull you to me and say "I love you I love you I love you" while stripping. I want you so bad it stings. I want to kill the ugly girls that you're always with. Do you really like those boring, naive, coy, calculating girls or is it just for sex? The seeds of love have taken hold, and if we won't burn together, I'll burn alone.”

“Will you call me before Christmas?' she asks.Maybe.' I pull on my vest, wondering why I even came here in the first place.You've still got my number, don't you?' She reaches for a pad and begins to write it down.Yeah, Blair. I've got your number. I'll get in touch.'I button up my jeans and turn to leave.Clay?'Yeah, Blair.'If I don't see you before Christmas,' she stops. 'Have a good one.'I look at her a moment. 'Hey, you too.'She picks up the stuffed black cat and strokes its head.I step out the door and start to close it.Clay?' she whispers loudly.I stop but don't turn around.'Yeah?'Nothing.”

“Sometimes when you’re standing in a crowd I feel those sultry dark eyes of yours stop on me. Are you too afraid to come up to me and let me know how you feel I want to moan and writhe with you and I want to go up to you and kiss your mouth and pull you to me and say “I love you I love you I love you” while stripping. I want you so bad it stings.”