i've made room for you, she said. if you want it, there's room.

We are not quite novels. We are not quite short stories. In the end, we are collected works

There's a strange sort of quiet when you're dying. It's as if you're in a glass room, and the walls keep getting thicker and thicker.

The things we respond to at twenty are not necessarily the same things we will respond to at forty and vice versa. This is true in books and also in life

You forget all of it anyway. . . You forget who was cool and who was not, who was pretty, smart, athletic, and not. . . You forget all of them. Even the ones you said you loved, and even the ones you actually did. They’re the last to go. And then once you’ve forgotten enough, you love someone else.

The casualities seemed to go on and on. Just when I thought I was done losing her, I would find yet another way to love her all over again.

"I accept your condemnation," I said.