I think she got the (main character Claire Roth) typical artist's neurotic personality down pat.

A writer friend once told me that when she walks into a library anywhere in the world, the smell makes her feel instantly at home.

It takes my mind a moment to catch up with my body, and I realize I'm feeling dread.

If Rik were around he'd say 'I'm getting old here.'

Six weeks is a long time. It's long enough to develop headaches, insomnia, digestive issues, fear of success, fear of failure, fear of fear itself, and a host of other psychological problems. I managed to acquire every one, and a few others, while I waited for the verdict from Karen Sinsheimer. Self-diagnosed, of course. By the time she called, I was a complete wreck.

Now that I'm on the inside, out of view of the millions of people who could care less about the absence of presence of my soul, I feel somewhat better.

No insecurity too obscure.

It's been quite a while since I wielded a sponge, and the combination of strong coffee and my need for closure drive me into uncharacteristic tidiness.

I shall remind you, sir, that I am in the process of accomplishing many things. Most of which I see no man doing at all.

We can only talk about the bad forgeries, the ones that have been detected. The good ones are still hanging on museum walls.