We realized that the version of the world they rendered for us was not the version of the world they really believed in.

that since Cecilia’s suicide, the Lisbon’s could hardly wait for the night to forget themselves in sleep

Three times a day Petrovich showed up at the nurse's office for his injections, always using the hypodermic needle himself like the most craven of junkies, though after shooting up he would play the concert piano in the auditorium with astounding artistry, as though insulin were the elixir of genius.

girls forbidden to dance would only attract husbands with bad complexions and sunken chests.

There's a kind of acting that goes on in my head when I'm writing a character where I put myself in their place.

They thought depression was like bieng 'depressed'. They thought it was like being in a bad mood, only worse. Therefore, they tried to get him to snap out of it.

Words, words, word. Once, I had the gift. I could make love out of words as a potter makes cups of clay. Love that overthrows empire. Love that binds two hearts together, come hellfire & brimstone. For sixpence a line, I could cause a riot in a nunnery. But now -- I have lost my gift. It's as if my quill is broken, as if the organ of my imagination has dried up, as if the proud -illegible word- of my genius has collapsed.