Clearly something had gone wrong, badly, only I wasn't quite sure what—apart from knowing that I was responsible somehow, in the generalized miasma of shame and unworthiness and being-a-burden that never quite left me.

The trouble is when people read about authors, they don't feel compelled to read the authors' work.

Beauty is rarely soft or consolatory. Quite the contrary. Genuine beauty is always quite alarming.

Caring too much for objects can destroy you. Only—if you care for a thing enough, it takes on a life of its own, doesn’t it? And isn’t the whole point of things—beautiful things—that they connect you to some larger beauty?

One likes to think there's something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I've learned one thing in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn't conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does is a fool.

But romantic vision can also lead one away from certain very hard, ugly truths about life that are important to know.

Children love secret club houses. They love secrecy even when there's no need for secrecy