She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.
If all good, respectable people had one face, I'd spit in it.
Life if curious when reduced to its essentials
I found when I was a child that if I put the hurt into words, it would go.
If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heaven. No more damned magic.
For the first time she had dimly realized that only the hopeless are starkly sincere and that only the unhappy can either give or take sympathy--even some of the bitter and dangerous voluptuousness of misery.