Of course, every time I end a book, I look down at myself and I'm just the same. I'm always disappointed that I'm just the same, but not enough to never do it again!

It was hollow, my triumph, I could feel that, but I held on to it just the same.

One day I was living silently in a personal hell, without anyone to tell what I felt, without even knowing that the feelings I had were possible to have; and then one day I was not living like that at all. I had begun to see the past like this: there is a line; you can draw it yourself, or sometimes it gets drawn for you; either way, there it is, your past, a collection of people you used to be and things you used to do. Your past is the person you no longer are, the situations you are no longer in.

I wish that I could love someone so much that I would die from it.

On their way to freedom, some people find riches, some people find death.

I would never never read a work of fiction and want to know about the person's life.

I like melancholy. I like to pretend that I'm alone in the world and I'm just sort of abandoned.