“....his silence he has indicated that he is willing. He hasn't the strength any more, the excess vitality, for an affair—its danger, its demand performances, the secrecy added like a filigree to your normal life, your gnawing preoccupation with it and with the constant threat of its being discovered and ended.”

“I wish I were stronger and more secure in myself so that I could really spend my life with a guy like Lenny. Because he has a different kind of strength than Joshie. He has the strength of his sweet tuna arms. He has the strength of putting his nose in my hair and calling it home. He has the strength to cry when I go down on him. Who IS Lenny? Who DOES that? Who will ever open up to me like that again? No one. Because it's too dangerous. Lenny is a dangerous man. Joshie is more powerful, but Lenny is much more dangerous.”

“Constant work, constant writing and constant revision. The real writer learns nothing from life. He is more like an oyster or a sponge. What he takes in he takes in normally the way any person takes in experience. But it is what is done with it in his mind, if he is a real writer, that makes his art.”

“Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life.”

“Your thigh? Your shoulder? Is there any part of you that hasn't been hurt yet?"He seemed to be contemplating my question for a moment and then he nodded. He tapped his chest. "Yeah, my heart." He looked over at me. "But its feeling mighty vulnerable these days, so who knows.”

“I said to the doctor, who was with us daily. 'He's got a wonderful will to live, hasn't he?''Would you put it like that? I should say a great fear of death.''Is there a difference?''Oh dear, yes. He doesn't derive any strength from his fear, you know. It's wearing him out.”