I gave them all the truth and none of the honesty.

I guess this is what marriage is, or was, or could be. You drop the mask. You allow the fatigue in. You lean across and kiss the years because they're the things that matter.

What was a life anyway? An accumulation of small shelves of incident.

It had never occurred to me before but everything in New York is built upon another thing, nothing is entirely by itself, each thing as strange as the last, and connected.

I have different books for different times of the day, let alone different seasons of the year!

This is not my life. These are not my cobwebs. This is not the darkness I was designed for.

Where happiness was not a possibility, the illusion of it was always more important.