He always thought that Touie's long illness would somehow prepare him for her death. He always imagined that grief anf guilt, if they followed, would be more clear-edged, more defined, more finite. Instead they seem like weather, like clouds constantly re-forming into new shapes, blown by nameless, unidentifiable winds.

Irony - The modern mode: either the devil’s mark or the snorkel of sanity.

Later on in life, you expect a bit of rest, don't you? You think you deserve it. I did, anyway. But then you begin to understand that the reward of merit is not life's business.

Yes, of course we were pretentious -- what else is youth for?

It's easy, after all, not to be a writer. Most people aren't writers, and very little harm comes to them.

Nature is so exact, it hurts exactly as much as it is worth, so in a way one relishes the pain. If it didn't matter, it wouldn't matter.

You grew old first not in your own eyes, but in other people's eyes; then, slowly, you agreed with their opinion of you.