What I really felt like, though, was committing suicide. I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've done it, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

I can’t explain what I mean. And even if I could, I’m not sure I’d feel like it.

She was not one for emptying her face of expression.

Money always ends up making you blue.

Hell is the suffering of being unable to love.

Always, always, always referring every goddam thing that happens right back to our lousy little egos.

I just hope that one day - preferably when we’re both blind drunk - we can talk about it.