Things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.

there was something about that city, though it didn't let me feel guilty that I had no feeling for the things so many others needed. it let me alone.

I am a dolt of a man, easily made happy or even stupidly happy almost without cause and left alone I am mostly content.

A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.

The pest, in a sense, is a very superior being to us: he knows where to find us and how--usually in the bath or in sexual intercourse or asleep.

If you let them kill you, they will

A spark can set a whole forest on fire. Just a spark. Save it.