my mother, poor fish, wanting to be happy, beaten two or three times a week, telling me to be happy: "Henry, smile! why don't you ever smile?" and then she would smile, to show me how, and it was the saddest smile I ever saw

she’s mad, but she’s magic.

i was born to hustle roses down the avenue of the dead.

she is no longer the beautiful woman she was. she sends photos of herself sitting upon a rock by the ocean alone and damned. I could have had her once. I wonder if she thinks I could have saved her?

I was beaten down long ago in some alley in another world.

The secret is writing down one simple line after another.

a good book can make an almost impossible existence, liveable ( from 'the luck of the word' )