Her smile steps offstage for a moment, then does an encore, all while I'm dealing with my blushing face.

I can be hurt, you know. I can get as exhausted as anybody else. I can feel so bad I want to cry, too.

I don't care what you do to me, but I don't want you to hurt me. I've had enough hurt already in my life. More than enough. Now I want to be happy.

When I am writing, I do not distinguish between the natural and supernatural. Everything seems real. That is my world, you could say.

I'm not so weird to me.

I do feel that I’ve managed to make something I could maybe call my world…over time…little by little. And when I’m inside it, to some extent, I feel kind of relieved. But the very fact I felt I had to make such a world probably means that I’m a weak person, that I bruise easily, don’t you think? And in the eyes of society at large, that world of mine is a puny little thing. It’s like a cardboard house: a puff of wind might carry it off somewhere.

If they invent a car that runs on stupid jokes, you could go far.