My existence from day to day has become a matter of averting my eyes, of cringing. Death is the only truth left. Death is what I cannot bear to think. At every moment when I am thinking of something else, I am not thinking death, am not thinking the truth.

Our lies reveal as much about us as our truths

Once I lived in time as a fish in water, breathing it, drinking it, sustained by it. Now I kill time and time kills me.

It’s admirable, what you do, what she does, but to me animal-welfare people are a bit like Christians of a certain kind. Everyone is so cheerful and well-intentioned that after a while you itch to go off and do some raping and pillaging. Or to kick a cat.

When all else fails, philosophize.

I am not the we of anyone

If there were a better, clearer, shorter way of saying what the fiction says, then why not scrap the fiction?