Can I be blamed for wanting a real body, to put my arms around? Without it I too am disembodied. I can listen to my own heartbeat against the bedsprings...but there’s something dead about it, something deserted.

This is how the girl who couldn't speak and the man who couldn't see fell in love.

A man is just a woman's strategy for making other women.

Why is it he feels some line has been crossed, some boundary transgressed? How much is too much, how far is too far?

I planned my death carefully, unlike my life, which meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it.

You can think clearly only with your clothes on.

Once upon a time, novelists of the 19th century, such as Charles Dickens, published in serial form.