You can forget who you are if you're alone too much.

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.

Moira was like an elevator with open sides. She made us dizzy.

I suppose these deadlines we set for ourselves are really a way of saying we appreciate time, and want to use all of it.

Love is giving, marriage is buying and selling. You can't put love into a contract.

No more photos. Surely there are enough. No more shadows of myself thrown by light onto pieces of paper, onto squares of plastic. No more of my eyes, mouths, noses, moods, bad angles. No more yawns, teeth, wrinkles. I suffer from my own multiplicity. Two or three images would have been enough, or four, or five. That would have allowed for a firm idea: This is she. As it is, I'm watery, I ripple, from moment to moment I dissolve into my other selves. Turn the page: you, looking, are newly confused. You know me too well to know me. Or not too well: too much.

I think the book you always like best is the one you're about to write.