A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn't stink a little bit of the writer's pride in having given up his pride.

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.

I feel overwhelmingly grateful to them, but I don't know what to do with their invisible gifts.

And I can't be running back and fourth forever between grief and high delight.

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

We’re freaks, that’s all. Those two bastards got us nice and early and made us into freaks with freakish standards, that’s all. We’re the tattooed lady, and we’re never going to have a minute’s peace, the rest of our lives, until everybody else is tattooed, too.

The goddam movies. They can ruin you. I'm not kidding