What if I could give you your life back; pluck out the pain; and give you a world of unimaginable beauty that would be for all time.

Get thee behind me, tragedy.

In the chapel you prayed to be a saint and now I will make you a god.

We need to stop fighting Christian against Christian. I have no time for anything but trying to love other people. That is a full-time job.

I don't like myself you know. I love myself. I'm devoted to myself till my dying day. But I don't like myself.

Dear God, help me. Do not forget me on this tiny cinder lost in a galaxy that is lost–a heart no bigger than a speck of dust beating, beating against death, against meaninglessness, against guilt, against sorrow.

When we talk about our lives, long or short, brief and tragic or enduring beyond comprehension, we impose a continuity on them, and that continuity is a lie.