My God, the corruptions of literature. It put all these notions into our heads.

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.

In February, the overcast sky isn’t gloomy so much as neutral and vague. It’s a significant factor in the common experience of depression among the locals. The snow crunches under your boots and clings to your trousers, to the cuffs, and once you’re inside, the snow clings to you psyche, and eventually you have to go to the doctor. The past soaks into you in this weather because the present is missing almost entirely.

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.

As the poet says, all happy couples are alike, it's the unhappy ones who create the stories. I'm no longer a story. Happiness has made me fade into real life.

Short story characters, mine anyway, are usually driven by impulse, not so much by their histories and the choices that they have to make.

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