On the other hand, I mean, that is what writers have always been supposed to do, was to rely on their own devices and to - I mean, writing is a lonely business.

Does such a thing as 'the fatal flaw,' that showy dark crack running down the middle of a life, exist outside literature? I used to think it didn't. Now I think it does. And I think that mine is this: a morbid longing for the picturesque at all costs.

Sometimes we want what we want even if we know it’s going to kill us.

All those layers of silence upon silence.

Every new event—everything I did for the rest of my life—would only separate us more and more: days she was no longer a part of, an ever-growing distance between us. Every single day for the rest of my life, she would only be further away.

I think it's hard to write about children and to have an idea of innocence.

There is nothing wrong with the love of Beauty. But Beauty-unless she is wed to something more meaningful-is always superficial