What do we talk about? Just ordinary things. What happened today, or books we've read, or tomorrow's weather, you know. Don't tell me you're wondering if people jump to their feet and shout stuff like 'It'll rain tomorrow if a polar bear eats the stars tonight!

People fall in love without reason, without even wanting to. You can't predict it. That's love.

I stare at this ceaseless, rushing crowd and imagine a time a hundred years from now. In a hundred years everybody here-me included-will have disappeared from the face of the earth and turned into ashes or dust. A weird thought, but everything in front of me starts to seem unreal, like a gust of wind could blow it all away.

You’re optimistic one moment, only to be racked the next by the certainty that it will all fall to pieces. And in the end it does.

The passage of time will usually extract the venom of most things and render them harmless

Which is why I am writing this book. To think. To understand. It just happens to be the way I'm made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them.

But if you knew you might not be able to see it again tomorrow, everything would suddenly become special and precious, wouldn’t it?