It must happen to everyone. The last time you make love, you can't know it will be the last.

I think whenever we think of our hometowns, we tend to think of very specific people: with whom you rode on the school bus, who was your next door neighbor you were playing with, who your girlfriend was. It's always something very specific.

I don't think that writer's block exists really. I think that when you're trying to do something prematurely, it just won't come. Certain subjects just need time, as I've learned over and over again. You've got to wait before you write about them.

What madness! Yet she would do it, if she could force herself. She'd become, she believed, a stronger person: a willful, resolute. Like the man who adored her, reckless.

The heavenly light you admire is fossil-light, it's the unfathomably distant past you gaze into, stars long extinct

Ultimately, we measure ourselves against our own ideas of idealism and perfection, and we don't always come very close to them.

For what is delusion but the prelude to hurt. And what is hurt but the prelude to rage.