We are often insane with happiness. We are also very unhappy for reasons neither of us can do anything about. Like being separated.

I wish for a moment that time would lift me out of this day, and into some more benign one. But then I feel guilty for wanting to avoid the sadness; dead people need us to remember them, even if it eats us, even if all we can do is say "I'm sorry" until it is as meaningless air.

In the dim light of the computer screen he seemed otherworldly; Julia thought him beautiful, though she knew it was the beauty of damage.

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.

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

I'm sorry. I didn't know you were coming or I'd have cleaned up a little more. My life, I mean, not just the apartment.

It's funny how we like labels. If I ever have a bookstore, I'm not going to put any labels on the sections.