Worship your body, beauty, and sexual allure and you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you.

Tell them there are no holes for your fingers in the masks of men. Tell them how could you ever even hope to love what you can't grab onto.

To be a mass tourist, for me,...is, in lines and gridlock and transaction after transaction, to confront a dimension of yourself that is as inescapable as it is painful: As a tourist, you become economically significant but existentially loathsome, an insect on a dead thing.

I had, by thirteen, developed a sort of Taoist hubris about my ability to control via non-control.

I have filled 3 Mead notebooks trying to figure out whether it was Them or Just Me.

Do this: hate him for me after I die. I beg you. Dying request.

True heroism is minutes, hours, weeks, year upon year of the quiet, precise, judicious exercise of probity and care—with no one there to see or cheer. This is the world.