When somebody is that patient, you have to feel grateful, and then you want to hurt them. Does that make any sense?

When we met I was wrecked, blasted, and damned, and I am slowly pulling myself together because I can see that you are a human being and I would like to be one, too.

I'm bored with knitting. I've taken up arson.

It comes out so quietly that I have to ask her to repeat it: “It’s just that I thought maybe you were married to me.

How does it feel? I feels exactly like one of those dreams in which you suddenly realize that you have to take a test you haven't studied for and you aren't wearing any clothes. And you've left your wallet at home. When I am out there, in time, I am inverted, changed into a desperate version of myself. I become a thief, a vagrant, an animal who runs and hides. I startle old women and amaze children. I am a trick, an illusion of the highest order, so incredible that I am actually true.

I don't want to boss anyone and I don't want to be bossed.

I have a sort of Christmas-morning sense of the library as a big box full of beautiful books.