I knew what love was supposed to be: obsession with undertones of nausea.

Soon it will be daybreak. Soon the day will break. I can't stop it from breaking in the same way it always does, and then from lying there broken; always the same day, which comes around again like clockwork. It begins with the day before the day before, and then the day before, and then it's the day itself. A Saturday. The breaking day. The day the butcher comes.

The answers you get from literature depend on the questions you pose.

People cry at weddings for the same reason they cry at happy endings: because they so desperately want to believe in something they know is not credible.

A fist is more than the sum of its fingers.

I don't know why they are all so eager to be remembered. What good will it do them? There are some things that should be forgotten by everyone, and never spoken of again.

There are some women who seem to be born without fear, just as there are people who are born without the ability to feel pain ... Providence appears to protect such women, maybe out of astonishment.