Not being able to find meaning can be just as powerful as finding meaning.

It's the rare book that's able to transport you in a way that a movie does.

Disintegration---I'm taking it in stride.

I want to moan and writhe with you and I want to go up to you and kiss your mouth and pull you to me and say "I love you I love you I love you" while stripping. I want you so bad it stings.

I write books to relieve ­myself of pain. That's the prime motivator to write. Period.

A curtain of stars, miles of them, are scattered, glowing, across the sky and their multitude humbles me, which I have a hard time tolerating. She shrugs and nods after I say something about forms of anxiety. It's as if her mind is having a hard time communicating with her mouth, as if she is searching for a rational analysis of who I am, which is, of course, an impossibility: there... is... no... key.

I feel like I'm not smart enough to answer the questions I'm asked.