When we sat down to eat I took inventory of the people in the room, and the remnants of my good mood evaporated when I realized how very little I had in common with them – the career dads, the responsible and diligent moms – and I was soon filled with dread and loneliness. I locked in on the smug feeling of superiority that married couples give off and that permeated the air – the shared assumptions, the sweet and contented apathy, it all lingered everywhere – despite the absence in the room of anyone single at which to aim this.

What do you do?' she asks, holding out the vest. 'What do you do?' 'What do you do?' she asks, her voice shaking. 'Don't ask me, please. Okay, Clay?' 'Why not?' She sits on the mattress after I get up. Muriel screams. 'Because... I don't know,' she sighs. I look at her and don't feel anything and walk out with my vest.

I really believe that readers are smart and sophisticated enough to realize that the author is not the narrator of his novels.

I went to college in Vermont, and then stayed in the East Coast.

I feel I'm moving toward as well as away from something, and anything is possible.

Yes. Yes I am. I am a completely demented misogynist.

Do you wear a diaphragm everywhere you go?' I want to scream, but stop myself because the idea really excites me.