It's everybody, I mean. Everything everybody does is so - I don't know - not wrong, or even mean, or even stupid necessarily. But just so tiny and meaningless and - sad-making. And the worst part is, if you go bohemian or something crazy like that, you're conforming just as much only in a different way.

An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else's.

Her joke of a name aside, her general unprettiness aside, she was, in terms of permanently memorable, immoderately perceptive, small-area faces, a stunning and final girl.

Life is a game, boy. Life is a game that one plays according to the rules.

The existence of God, the why of life, was all that really only a question of glands?

I know. I'm very hard to talk to. I realize that.

You can't exist in this world with such strong likes and dislikes.