It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you're telling it, to yourself or to someone else.

It was like being in an elevator cut loose at the top. Falling, falling, and not knowing when you will hit.

Toast is me. I am toast.

By telling you anything at all I'm at least believing in you, I believe you're there, I believe you into being.

Don't misunderstand me. I am not scoffing at goodness, which is far more difficult to explain than evil, and far more complicated. But sometimes it's hard to put up with.

My favorite author's question of all time - because it's so simple to answer ... 'Is your hair really like that, or do you get it done?

I feel despised there, for having so little money; also for once having had so much. I never actually had it, of course. Father had it, and then Richard. But money was imputed to me, the same way crimes are imputed to those who've simply been present at them.