You have no idea what it is like to constantly disappoint people. You see it the moment you meet them. You see in their eyes that they expected something so entirely different, and here they are meeting you.

This is the worst problem with living history museums. They always leave the best parts out. Like typhus. And opium. And scarlet letters. Shunning. Witch-burning.

Burn the Louvre, and wipe your ass with the Mona Lisa. This way at least, God would know our names.

There are worse things you can do to people you love than kill them.

It's not enough to be numbered with the grains of sand on the beach and the stars in the sky.

And the more she could imagine this island, the less she liked the real world. The more she could imagine the people, the less she liked any real people.

If you're not drunk and half naked by this point, you're not paying attention.