No bill of sexual rights can hold its own against the lawless, untamable landscape of the erotic imagination.

Much as I try to disguise myself, there is never a time when I'm not aware of being overweight.

I think the experience of depression that I most think remains true throughout the years is it's very isolating. That to me is its strongest quality. That you're alone in a room, that you're cut off, you're just sort of stuck with it. It puts up a wall.

Then again, as those who suffer from it know, intractable depression creates a planet all its own, largely impermeable to influence from others except as shadow presences, urging you to come out and rejoin the world, take in a movie, go out for a bite, cheer up.

Naturally, our own irrational demands strike us as having the force of needs, while other people's needs strike us as capricious indulgences.

My mother is the source of my unease in the world and thus the only person who can make me feel at home in the world.

Everyone lies about sex, more or less, to themselves if not to others, to others if not to themselves, exaggerating its importance or minimizing its pull.