Because it is the Midwest, no one really glitters because no one has to, it's more of a dull shine, like frequently used silverware.

There's nothing to talk about to strangers anymore, if you know what I mean. Everything I want to say, I say to her.

When readers don't like the book, it's usually because they feel that romantic love is pass or somehow needs more irony.

The problem with love and God, the two of them, is how to say anything about them that doesn’t annihilate them instantly with the wrong words, with untruth. . . . In this sense, love and God are equivalents. We feel both, but because we cannot speak clearly about them, we end up–wordless, inarticulate—by denying their existence altogether, and, pfffffft, they die.

Savor the imminent weirdness of the day.

When you break the heart of the philosopher, you must apply great force and cunning strategy, but when the deed is completed, the heart lies in great stony ruin at your feet. If you succeed in breaking it, the job is done once and for all. It will not be repaired.

Forget art. Put your trust in ice cream.