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Dying for love might be pitiable, but it wasn't much different, finally, from any other kind of dying.

Richard Yates

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Richard Yates
Love
Pitiable
Finally
Dying
Wasn
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Different
Much
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She was calm and quiet now with knowing what she had always known, what neither her parents nor Aunt Claire nor Frank nor anyone else had ever had to teach her: that if you wanted something to do something absolutely honest, something true, it always turned out to be a thing that had to be done alone.
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...you found you were saying yes when you meant no, and “We’ve got to be together in this thing” when you meant the very opposite ... and then you were face to face, in total darkness, with the knowledge that you didn’t know who you were. And how could anyone else be blamed for that?
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If my work has a theme, I suspect it is a simple one: that most human beings are inescapably alone, and therein lies their tragedy.
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He knew it was possible for shame to be nursed and doctored like an illness, if you wanted to keep it separate from the rest of your life, but that didn't mean there'd be any way to keep from knowing it was there.
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Do you know what the definition of insane is? Yes. It’s the inability to relate to another human being. It’s the inability to love.
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Every man has a right to keep his own sentiments if he pleases.
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A man could rant and smash and grapple with the State Police, and still the sprinklers whirled at dusk on every lawn and the television droned in every living room.
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God knows there certainly ought to be a window around here somewhere, for all of us.
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Acting might bring on emotional exhaustion, but writing tired your brains out. Writing led to depression and insomnia and walking around all day with a haggard look.
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No one forgets the truth they just get better at lying.
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Know what we did, Lucy? You and me? We spent our whole lives yearning. Isn't that the God damndest thing?
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Can you really think artists and writers are the only people entitled to lives of their own?
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Anybody's marriage might benefit from an occasional embargo on talk.
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There's never been anything funny about a woman dying for love.
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