No matter how long you stand there examining yourself naked before a mirror, you'll never see reflected what's inside.

At any rate, that’s how I started running. Thirty three—that’s how old I was then. Still young enough, though no longer a young man. The age that Jesus Christ died. The age that Scott Fitzgerald started to go downhill. That age may be a kind of crossroads in life. That was the age when I began my life as a runner, and it was my belated, but real, starting point as a novelist.

My arm was not what she needed, but the arm of someone else. My warmth was not what she needed, but the warmth of someone else.

Instead of things I'm good at, it might be faster to list the things I can't do. I can't cook or clean the house. My room's a mess, and I'm always losing things. I love music, but I can't sing a note. I'm clumsy and can barely sew a stitch. My sense of direction is the pits, and I can't tell left from right half the time. When I get angry, I tend to break things. Plates and pencils, alarm clocks. Later on I regret it, but at the time I can't help myself. I have no money in the bank. I'm bashful for no reason, and I have hardly any friends to speak of.

This was never any place I was meant to be. This isn’t a place for me.

I'm a very ordinary human being; I just happen to like reading books.

If there’s something I can’t do but want to, I won’t relax until I’m able to do it.