Spending plenty of time on something can be the most sophisticated form of revenge.

Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that's how we've got to live.

Death leaves cans of shaving cream half-used.

Distance might not solve anything, no matter how far you run.

This place is too calm, too natural--too complete. I don't deserve it. At least not yet.

The best thing would be to break your neck, but you'd probably just break your leg and then you couldn't do a thing. You'd yell at the top of your lungs, but nobody;d hear you, and you couldn't expect anybody to find you, and you'd have centipedes and spiders crawling all over you, and the bones of the ones who died before are scattered all around you, and it's dark and soggy, and way overhead there's this tiny, tiny circle of light like a winter moon. You die there in this place, little by little, all by yourself.

What would tomorrow bring? I wondered. Both hands on the wheel, I closed my eyes. I didn’t feel like I was in my own body; my body was just a lonely, temporary container I happened to be borrowing. What would become of me tomorrow I did not know.