Love is about bottomless empathy, born out of the heart’s revelation that another person is every bit as real as you are. And this is why love, as I understand it, is always specific. Trying to love all of humanity may be a worthy endeavor, but, in a funny way, it keeps the focus on the self, on the self’s own moral or spiritual well-being. Whereas, to love a specific person, and to identify with his or her struggles and joys as if they were your own, you have to surrender some of your self.

If you want to have friends, you have to remember that nobody's perfect.

He couldn't figure out if she was immensely well adjusted or seriously messed up.

The world was ending then, it's ending still, and I'm happy to belong to it again.

Being dead's only a problem if you know you're dead, which you never do because you're dead!

It's doubtful that anyone with an internet connection at his workplace is writing good fiction.

And when the event, the big change in your life, is simply an insight-- isn't that a strange thing? That absolutely nothing changes except that you see things differently and you're less fearful and less anxious and generally stronger as a result: isn't it amazing that a completely invisible thing in your head can feel realer than anything you've experienced before?