We start out in identical perfection: bright, reflective, full of sun. The accident of our lives bruises us into dirty individuality. We meet with grief. Our character dulls and tarnishes. We meet with guilt. We know, we know: the price of living is corruption. There isn’t as much light as there once was. In the grave we lapse back into undifferentiated sameness

We only have babies when we're young enough not to know how grim life turns out.

When the times are a crucible, when the air is full of crisis, those who are the most themselves are the victims.

The momentum of the mind can be vexingly, involuntarily capricious.

There were people everywhere but no one was mine, and I was no one's.

...and he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, little by little by little.

And there the wicked witch stayed for a long long time.' Did she ever come out?' Not yet.