...hoarders of guilty secrets are inevitably consumed with appearances.

I am in flight from my story every day, and it dogs me like a faithful stray.

Worse, the deadly accuracy of filial faultfinding is facilitated by access, by trust, by willing disclosure, and so constitutes a double betrayal.

I thought at the time that I couldn't be horrified anymore, or wounded. I suppose that's a common conceit, that you've already been so damaged that damage itself, in its totality, makes you safe.

In the particular dwells the tawdry. In the conceptual dwells the grand, the transcendent, the everlasting. Earthly countries and single malignant boys can go to hell; the idea of countries and the idea of sons triumph for eternity.

But what's so great about being a perfectionist?... You do all this work, and then the stuff you've made just pisses you off.

Desire is one of the burning experiences of human life.