I'll think about something else. I'll just sit quietly. If I could sit still. If I could sit still, maybe I could read. Oh, all the books are about people who love each other, truly and sweetly. What do they want to write about that for? Don't they know it isn't true? Don't they know it's a lie, it's a God-damned lie? What do they have to tell about that for, when they know how it hurts?

Time may be a great healer, but it's a lousy beautician.

Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.

Now, look, baby, 'Union' is spelled with 5 letters. It is not a four-letter word.

This must be a gift book. That is to say a book, which you wouldn't take on any other terms.

I wouldn't touch a superlative again with an umbrella.

It's not the tragedies that kill us; it's the messes.