All artists are two-headed calves.
The feeble-minded, the neurotic, the criminal, perhaps, also, the artist, have unpredictability and perverted innocence in common.
Here is a hall without exit, a tunnel without end.
I don’t think I’ve ever drunk champagne before breakfast before. With breakfast on several occasions, but never before before.
I dream of eagles and bring forth sparrows.
Champagne does have one regular drawback: swilled as a regular thing a certain sourness settles in the tummy, and the result is permanent bad breath. Really incurable.
How do I look so young? Quite simple: a complete vegetable diet, 12 hours sleep a night, and lots and lots of make-up.
The brain may take advice, but not the heart.
It takes a lot of bad writing to get to a little good writing.
Good writing is rewriting.
I think the only person a writer has an obligation to is himself. If what I write doesn’t fulfill something in me, if I don’t honestly feel it’s the best I can do, then I’m miserable.
I thought that Mr. Clutter was a very nice gentleman. I thought so right up to the moment that I cut his throat.
I thought of the future, and spoke of the past.
It is very seldom that a person loves anyone they cannot in some way envy.
You can love somebody without it being like that. You keep them a stranger, a stranger who’s a friend.
You don’t run out on people; you run out on yourself.
That’s the question: is truth an illusion, or is illusion truth, or are they essentially the same? Myself, I don’t care what anybody says about me as long as it isn’t true.
Most secrets should never be told, but especially those that are more menacing to the listener than to the teller.
She was a triumph over ugliness, so often more beguiling than real beauty, if only because it contains paradox.
To wake up one morning and feel that I was a last a grown-up person, emptied of resentment, vengeful thoughts and other wasteful childish emotions. To find myself, in other words, an adult. Truman Capote.