There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.

But I was afraid of the questions (much more than the accusations) you might both put to me.

I privately say to you, old friend... please accept from me this unpretentious bouquet of early-blooming parentheses: (((()))).

People never notice anything.

I'm sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect.

It always smelled like it was raining outside, even if it wasn't, and you were in the only nice, dry, cosy place in the world.

I know he's dead! Don't you think I know that? I can still like him, though, can't I? Just because somebody's dead, you don't just stop liking them, for God's sake--especially if they were about a thousand times nicer than the people you know that're alive and all.