But don't tell me I'm not sensitive to beauty. That's my Achilles' heel, and don't you forget it. To me, everything is beautiful. Show me a pink sunset and I'm limp, by God.

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

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

How old are you? I asked her. "Old enough to know better." she said.

She wrote to him fairly regularly, from a paradise of triple exclamation points and inaccurate observations.

People never think anything is anything really. I'm getting goddam sick of it.

If I were God, I certainly wouldn't want people to love me sentimentally. It's too unreliable.