Not that that mystical stuff's necessarily true: The only thing that's capital-T true is that you get to decide how you're going to try to see it.

He suddenly felt nothing, or rather Nothing, a pre-tornadic stillness of zero sensation, as if he were the very space he occupied.

A lot of writers tired of doing kind of hip, slick, funny, dark, exploding hypocrisy, underlining once again the point that life is a farce and we're all in it for ourselves and that the point of life is to amass as much money/fame/sexual gratification, you know, whatever your personal thing is, and that everything else is just glitter or PR image - that we're tired of sort of doing that stuff over and over again.

It's in the democratic citizen's nature to be like a leaf that doesn't believe in the tree it's part of.

You are what you love. No? You are, completely and only, what you would die for without, as you say, the thinking twice.

There is no hatred in my love for you. Only a sadness I feel all the more strongly for my inability to explain or describe it.

Almost nothing important that ever happens to you happens because you engineer it.