She worries over the way her love for me comes and goes, appears and disappears. She doubts its reality simply because it isn't as steadily pleasurable as a kitten. God knows it is sad. The human voice conspires to desecrate everything on earth.

God, how I still love private readers. It’s what we all used to be.

It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.

I’ll read my books and I’ll drink coffee and I’ll listen to music, and I’ll bolt the door.

I’m not going to bed after all. Somebody around here hath murdered sleep. Good for him.

I knew it wasn't too important, but it made me sad anyway.

The Great Gatsby' [...] was my 'Tom Sawyer' when I was twelve [....]