What am I living for and what am I dying for are the same question.

The thing about delirium is you think it's great, but it actually isn't.

The farther north you go, the fewer fruits and vegetables there are. What kind of apple trees do you suggest the Inuit get their apples from? And how much oil is expended transporting such things out there? It's an equation.

As human beings, we are always torn between individual freedom and the ability of choose our actions, and the need for at least enough social structure so that anarchy, chaos, and warlordery - or the war of all against all - can be avoided.

It had helped to keep her sane, that writing. Then, when time had begun again and real people had entered it, she'd abandoned it here. Now it's a whisper from the past. Is that what writing amounts to? The voice your ghost would have, if it had a voice?

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.

And consider: it is loss to which everything flows, absence in which everything flowers