purification in fire. public cremation

What was the point in such loneliness among people. At least if you were by yourself, you had a good reason to be lonely.

I wanted to hear what she was saying. I wanted to smell that burnt midnight again, I wanted to feel that wind. It was a secret wanting, like a song I couldn't stop humming, or loving someone I could never have. No matter where I went, my compass pointed west. I would always know what time it was in California.

A book's flaws make it less predictable.

That was the thing about words, they were clear and specific-chair, eye, stone- but when you talked about feelings, words were too stiff, they were this and not that, they couldn't include all the meanings. In defining, they always left something out.

No matter how unappealing, each of them imagines he is somehow worthy.

Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.