Rage cannot be hidden, it can only be dissembled. This dissembling deludes the thoughtless, and strengthens rage and adds, to rage, contempt.

I'm beginning to think that maybe everything that happens makes sense. Like, if it didn't make sense, how could it happen?

I thought of the people before me who had looked down at the river and gone to sleep beneath it. I wondered about them. I wondered how they had done it--it, the physical act. I simply wondered about the dead because their days had ended and I did not know how I would get through mine.

I was guilty and irritated and full of love and pain. I wanted to kick him and I wanted to take him in my arms.

Whoever is born in New York is ill-equipped to deal with any other city: all other cities seem, at best, a mistake, and, at worst, a fraud. No other city is so spitefully incoherent.

The moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.

If one cannot risk oneself, then one is simply incapable of giving. And, after all, one can give freedom only by setting someone free.