The point is, it didn’t really matter what the book was about. It was what it meant that was important.

If you can't imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

in the trees this afternoon, he was a giver of bread and teddy bears.

... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.

I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.

He killed himself for wanting to live.