Craziness was considered funny, like all other things that were in reality frightening and profoundly shameful.

Imagine a famine. Now imagine a piece of bread. Both of these things are real but you happen to be in the same room with only one of them. Put yourself into a different room, that’s what the mind is for.

But in the end, back she comes. There's no use resisting. She goes to him for amnesia, for oblivion. She renders herself up, is blotted out; enters the darkness of her own body, forgets her name. Immolation is what she wants, however briefly. To exist without boundaries.

A fist is more than the sum of its fingers.

The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read.

But maybe boredom is erotic, when women do it, for men.

She had no images of this love. She could offer no anecdotes. It was a belief rather than a memory.