We must strike down the insidious lie that a book is the creation of an individual soul labouring in isolation. We must strike it down because it threatens the overall quality and breadth of American literature.

At some point, you just pull off the Band-Aid, and it hurts, but then it's over and you're relieved.

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

I don't even know how ugly and pretty get decided.

It's bad for your brain not to unplug.

In the first century CE, Roman authorities punished St. Apollonia by crushing her teeth one by one with pliers. Colin often thought about this in relationship to the monotony of dumping: we have thirty-two teeth. After a while, having each tooth individually destroyed probably gets repetitive, even dull. But it never stops hurting.

I mean, I am pretty fabulous. Am I not?' 'You're a pillar of fabulosity in the community,' I tell him.