A room is, after all, a place where you hide from the wolves. That's all any room is.

I have tried," I said, "but he does not believe me. It is too late for that now" (it is always too late for truth, I thought).

I would never be part of anything. I would never really belong anywhere, and I knew it, and all my life would be the same, trying to belong, and failing. Always something would go wrong. I am a stranger and I always will be, and after all I didn’t really care.

very few people change after well say seven or seventeen. Not really. They get more this or more that and of course look a bit different. But inside they are the same.

Have all beautiful things sad destinies?

The last time you were happy about nothing; the first time you were afraid about nothing. Which came first?

It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.