Sometimes we think people are like lottery tickets, that they're there to make our most absurd dreams come true.

That's what happens when people reach old age; nobody remembers they've been bastards too.

The air seemed poisoned with fear and hatred. People eyed on another suspiciously, and the streets smelled of a silence that knotted your stomach.

Nobody had noticed, nobody had paid attention, but, as usual, the essential part of the matter had been settled before the story had begun, and by then it was too late.

I became a writer, a teller of tales, because otherwise I would have died... or worse.

I wondered what on earth she saw in me that could make her want to befriend me, other than a pale reflection of herself, an echo of solitude and loss. In my ..reveries, we were always two fugitives riding on the spine of a book, eager to escape into worlds of fiction and second hand dreams

I'm not talking to anyone, I'm delivering a monologue. It's the inebriated man's prerogative.