...people with nothing to declare carry the most.

In the end, everyone loses everyone. There was no invention to get around that.

The world is a big place," he said, "but so is the inside of an apartment!

It was the first time I had ever made love. I wondered if he knew that. It felt like crying. I wondered, Why does anyone ever make love?

She repeats things until they are true, or until she can't tell whether they are true or not. She has become an expert at confusing what is with what was with what should be with what could be.

To remember my values, I need to lose certain tastes and find other handles for the memories that they once helped me carry.

We live in a world made up more of story than stuff. We are creatures of memory more than reminders, of love more than likes. Being attentive to the needs of others might not be the point of life, but it is the work of life. It can be messy, and painful, and almost impossibly difficult. But it is not something we give. It is what we get in exchange for having to die.