I just think that fiction that isn't exploring what it means to be human today isn't art.

The great thing about irony is that it splits things apart, gets up above them so we can see the flaws and hypocrisies and duplicates.

Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.

If your fidelity to perfectionism is too high, you never do anything.

If you worship power, you will feel weak and afraid, needing ever more power over others to keep the fear at bay.

My chest bumps like a dryer with shoes in it.

These worst mornings with cold floors and hot windows and merciless light - the soul's certainty that the day will have to be not traversed but sort of climbed, vertically, and then that going to sleep again at the end of it will be like falling, again, off something tall and sheer.