“Truth be told, happiness is like the artist's muse. She is very whimsical and loves to play little tricks on us. If we search too hard, happiness will slip away. And then, when we are not really concentrating on capturing her, she will suddenly appear in our peripheral vision wearing a green silk gown, winking at us.”

“People who think that happiness is something that’s always within their reach, I wonder how happy they must really be? That woman always gets nervous when she finds herself to be too happy. To that woman, happiness is like a blow bubbles we used to play with when we were little. The moment she touches the bubbles carrying the light of rainbow around her, they burst. In front of happiness, that woman gives up before even reaching out her hand.”

“This is the other secret that real artists know and wannabe writers don’t. When we sit down each day and do our work, power concentrates around us. The Muse takes note of our dedication. She approves. We have earned favor in her sight. When we sit down and work, we become like a magnetized rod that attracts iron filings. Ideas come. Insights accrete.”

“Life is a difficult thing to understand. It makes us too much happy and suddenly takes away the happiness. But we should smile in every phase of the life.”

“It is necessary to find one's own way in New York. New York City is not hospitable. She is very big and she has no heart. She is not charming. She is not sympathetic. She is rushed and noisy and unkempt, a hard, ambitious, irresolute place, not very lively, and never gay. When she glitters she is very, very bright, and when she does not glitter she is dirty. New York does nothing for those of us who are inclined to love her except implant in our hearts a homesickness that baffles us until we go away from her, and then we realize why we are restless. At home or away, we are homesick for New York not because New York used to be better and not because she used to be worse but because the city holds us and we don't know why.”

“We shouldn’t put too much trust in happiness,” I said. “It comes and goes. And when we try and take hold of it, it slips away from us. It’s like a beautiful bird sitting on our balcony rail and flying off the moment we get too close. Do you expect a bird to sit on your shoulder and sing to the pair of us the way we’d like it to? /A Time for Errors (1992)”