And yes, again, that was it exactly. A retyper and not a writer. A prodigy and not a genius.

You should see it. V for Vendetta I mean. "I'll look it up." No. With Me. At my house. Now

You can say a lot of bad things about Tiny Cooper. I know, because I have said them. But for a guy who knows absolutely nothing about how to conduct his own relationships, Tiny Cooper is kind of brilliant when it comes to dealing with other people's heartbreak. Tiny is like some gigantic sponge soaking up the pain of lost love everywhere he goes.

But as for me: I must ask the wounded man where he is hurt, because I cannot become the wounded man. The only wounded man I can be is me.

I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things.

Because there is no glory in illness. There is no meaning to it. There is no honor in dying of.

The world," he said, "is not a wish-granting factory," and then he broke down, just for one moment, his sob roaring impotent like a clap of thunder unaccompanied by lightning, the terrible ferocity that amateurs in the field of suffering might mistake for weakness.