I am married to someone I love.
I am basically a complainer and all the grounds for complaint have been swept out from under me.
We know the ideal isn’t where the action is.
I know from the middle distance I give off the look of being prolific, which is a funny compliment to receive.
No one has really ever defined what a friend is.
I am the heterosexual Truman Capote.
I just know so many people who have six or seven foreign languages and have read everything and have musical training and they are still dorks.
I should prefer to die laughing, and, on more than one occasion, thought I might.
By the way, the secret of speaking French is confidence. Whether you are right or wrong, you don’t hesitate.
I think the story is my form.
One of the pleasures of being a Jew, I don’t have to tell you, it allows you anti-Semitism.
The decisive moment in the defeat of upper class, capital-S, Society may have come when, in newspapers all over the nation, what used to be call the Society page was replaced by the Style section.
One serious drawback about letters is that, in order to get them, one must send some out. When it comes to the mail, I feel it is better to receive than to give.
I know how many days in which I have just answered e-mail, had three phone calls and a two hour lunch. Poof, gone. They are not infrequent.
In recompense, envy may be the subtlest – perhaps I should say the most insidious – of the seven deadly sins.