[T]o 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.

The personality susceptible to the dream of limitless freedom is a personality also prone, should the dream ever sour, to misanthropy and rage.

...She felt that nothing could kill her hope now, nothing. She was seventy-five and she was going to make some changes in her life.

This evening I begin a notebook. If anyone reads this, I trust they will forgive my overuse of "I". I can't stop it. I'm writing this.

You see more sitting still than chasing after.

Fiction is a solution, the best solution, to the problem of existential solitude.