It's strange how a person can have a distinct distaste for herself, but still she clutches on to life.

I was asking about lust, wasnʼt I? I was fairly certain of it. But isnʼt love supposed to come before lust? It does in the dictionary.

When we were small, Rose and I used to play a game called connect the dots. I loved it. I loved drawing a line from dot number 1 to dot number 2 and so on. Most of all, I loved the moment when the chaotic sprinkle of dots resolved itself into a picture. That's what stories do. They connect the random dots of life into a picture. But it's all an illusion. Just try to connect the dots of life. You'll end up with a lunatic scribble.

Did I kill him?” I said. “No, miss,” said Robert. “Pity.

Meaning. If you're going to die, you want to find meaning in life. You want to connect the dots.

Despite her cough, Rose was in unusually good spirits. That was irritating. If I’m to trade my life for Rose’s, I’d appreciate her exhibiting a touch of melancholy. Also acceptable would be despair.

You mind your tongue!” “Oh, I do,” I said. “I sharpen it every evening on your name.