Perhaps we had at last reached that stage of intimacy that destroys intimacy.

Once love had seemed like magic. Now it seemed like tricks.

She smiled at him, with longing. 'Where do you live,' she asked, 'and how do I get there?

If I had a staff of even one person, or could tolerate a small amphetamine habit, or entertain the possibility of weekly blood transfusions, or had been married to Vera Nabokov, or had a housespouse of even minimal abilities, a literary life would be easier to bring about. (In my mind I see all your male readers rolling their eyes. But your female ones - what is that? Are they nodding in agreement? Are their fists in the air?)

You chose love like a belief, a faith, a place, a box for one's heart to knock against like a spook in the house.

You know, I'm just a very boring, not very funny person in person. I don't feel pressured to be otherwise.

If God Speaks Through Burning Bushes, Let's Burn Bush and Listen to What God Says.