I think play must have been invented so we wouldn't go mad thinking about certain things.

Clare seems so pleased with the idea of me as a pirate that she forgets that I am Stranger Danger.

He looks sad. Or maybe that's just how he looks when he isn't doing something else with his face.

He is coming, and I am here.

He thanked her and left the house in the mood of a shipwrecked man who has allowed the rescue ship to pass him by.

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

What is more basic than the need to be known? It is the entirety of intimacy, the elixir of love, this knowing.