My pleasures disappeared with my vices.

Love cannot be measured by its duration.

Why do people who are good at families have to be smug and assume it is the only way to live. … Why can’t they be blamed for being bad at promiscuity?

And silence, like darkness, can be kind; it, too, is a language.

If jealousy was the vindaloo of love, I'd imagined her tongue burning, and such a fire forcing her to spill her truth.

The vocation of each writer is to describe the world as he or she sees it; anything more than that is advertising.

How disturbing it is that our illusions are often our most important beliefs.