(Such a life)engaged gross quantities of hope and despair and set them wildly side by side, like a Third World country of the heart.

Those are the love killers. They love you and then they kill you. They're from another planet. Supposedly.

A funny line can never exist on its own. It needs to be surrounded by mood and circumstances.

My new apartment might be a place where there are lots of children. They might gather on my porch to play, and when I step out for groceries, they will ask me, "Hi, do you have any kids?" and then, "Why not, don't you like kids?" "I like kids," I will explain. "I like kids very much." And when I almost run over them with my car, in my driveway, I will feel many different things.

I had never feared insomnia before--like prison, wouldn't it just give you more time to read?

If you're suicidal, and you don't actually kill yourself, you become known as 'wry.

I want to pretend there's such a thing as requited love. As the endurance of love.