This is God's universe, buddy, not yours, and he has the final say about what's ego and what isn't.

The rest, with very little exaggeration, was books. Meant-to-be-picked-up books. Permanently-left-behind books. Uncertain-what-to-do-with books. But books, books. Tall cases lined three walls of the room, filled to and beyond capacity. The overflow had been piled in stacks on the floor. There was little space left for walking, and none whatever for pacing.

I don't even know what I was running for—I guess I just felt like it.

You can hit my father over the head with a chair and he won't wake up, but my mother, all you have to do to my mother is cough somewhere in Siberia and she'll hear you.

John Keats / John Keats / John / Please put your scarf on.

Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them. I mean you'd be different in some way—I can't explain what I mean. And even if I could, I'm not sure I'd feel like it.

I have scars on my hands from touching certain people…Certain heads, certain colours and textures of human hair leave permanent marks on me.