But writers and their woes: they couldn't be parted. Not for anything.

— Naomi Wood

Children, Hadley thinks to herself, children are more civilized than this gang on the sauce.

— Naomi Wood

Ernest chose to go, she finally thinks, watching the fire turn the papers black. He loved her but he could not live anymore.

— Naomi Wood

I want to be a good man, a good writer."" Be one or the other, Ernest, not both.

— Naomi Wood

Martha thanks Sylvia, gesturing with the book. "Just remember not to try too hard with understanding it," Sylvia says. "Like people, they're best not to be too thoroughly understood.

— Naomi Wood

No man should be asked to live with so much sadness, and with so little promise of relief.

— Naomi Wood

No one ever tells you that: that there’s no method. Writing’s a lawless place.

— Naomi Wood

Oh, no. I split my time between Paris and New York. They're the only places to really live.

— Naomi Wood

Paris without a good book is like a pretty girl with only one eye.

— Naomi Wood

She kissed him, but he didn't seem to recognize it.

— Naomi Wood