Do not be confused by what the natural world knows: We are all, in our own way, completely and totally alone. If love is real, it is complete and total failing of the intellect. It is utter self-destruction. It is pandemonium.

When she cries, it is quiet, tearless, almost completely imperceptible: one more unheard prayer.

I was getting close to thirty and was trying on the idea of becoming more mature. I was reading more. I had gone out and bought a lot of shirts.

Sex scenes in books are always like first person, from this male perspective and just about how awesome he is. It feels like such a fantasy.

The city glitters past us with its sharp edges, reminding us of how tiny, how weak, how totally unimportant we are.

Beneath all of her thoughts and worries, beneath the complication of conflicting identities and needs, maybe it's as simple as loving the way some other person looks when they're sleeping.

The boy detective thinks, The only thing all men have in common with one another is their inherent capacity to make mistakes. He reasons, But there is wonder in the attempt, knowing we are all destined to fall short, but forgoing reason and fear time and time again so deliberately.