We'd failed, maybe, but some mysteries aren't meant to be solved.

I can't be you. You can't be me. You can imagine another well—but never quite perfectly, you know?

I didn’t need you, you idiot. I picked you. And then you picked me back.

We have to live with ambiguity. We have to give ourselves over to it. The question is: How? How are we going to live in a universe where important questions will always go unanswered?

All good American literature is always interested in people who are ambiguously heroic, like Gatsby.

If drunk were cookies, I'd be Famous Amos

Keys show up when you reconcile yourself to the bus.