I am basically a complainer and all the grounds for complaint have been swept out from under me.
I am married to someone I love.
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.
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.
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.
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.