Death promises nothing--not even oblivion.

I reject all evidence that my fabulous beloved is an ordinary person who worries, watches TV, and has bouts of indigestion.

I am no longer in love, but I still have my jealousy.

Shaw writes as if it were always midday.

To learn a vocation, you also have to learn the frauds it practices and the promises it breaks.

The psychiatrist's office: the only place I can be sure my story will be treated as sad, but interesting.

Living alone makes it harder to find someone to blame.