I hate it when people make fun of me and it turns out they're right.

Everyone's scared. So scared they can't sleep sometimes. Or eat. Or keep their weight on." "Then why bother playing?" I asked. It was a whisper, this question. "Because. You love the game. You love the people you play with. You love winning, maybe. You love that one moment when you get it right . . . I dunno. Why do you play?" "Because," I whispered, "it's who I am." Sounds like a good reason to me.

When you don't talk, there's a lot of stuff that ends up not getting said.

And have your mother put my head on a stake? Do you have any notion what that would do to my handsome good looks?

That which is priceless has no cost.

What is a staircase, but a corridor improved by elevation?

Everyone I looked at, their whole lives, did exactly what they were supposed to do without even questioning it, without even wondering if they could do something different.