And since she drove to work every morning, I could only use the car on weekends. Well, weekends and the middle of the goddamned night.

I knew that time would now pass for me differently than it would for him - that I, like everyone in that room, would go on accumulating loves and losses while he would not. And for me, that was the final and truly unbearable tragedy: Like all the innumerable dead, he'd once and for all been demoted from haunted to haunter.

But you want to see shapes; you want to see stories, so you pick them out of the sky.

Youth is counted sweetest by those who are no longer young.

You could drive past it without noticing and from what I understand, you ought to.

Here's my answer to the very real existential crisis that grips me midway through everything I've ever tried to do: I think stories help us fight the nihilistic urges that constantly threaten to consume us.

When I look at my room, I see a girl who loves books.