All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.

What you get is no longer what you see.

Vanity is becoming a nuisance, I can see why women give it up, eventually. But I'm not ready for that yet.

Love blurs your vision; but after it recedes, you can see more clearly than ever. It's like the tide going out, revealing whatever's been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing you see if you sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future.

There may not be one Truth - there may be several truths - but saying that is not to say that reality doesn't exist.

Love was like a steamroller. There was no avoiding it; it went over you and you came out flat.

Somebody has been a complete ratbag all their life and they've gotten away with it, and they die happy and rich, we so much want to believe that they're going off to the halls of judgment, that their heart will be weighed against the feather of truth, that it will be heavy with sin and it will be eaten by a crocodile. It's almost essential to our well-being to have a fallback position like that. It may appear as if you've gotten away with it, but you'll pay for it later.