In New York, pretending to be above the struggle means no seat on the bus and a table next to the kitchen.

Unlike life, when books become meaningless, they are making a point.

Lonely people console themselves with self-absorption or curiosity.

Every parent can imagine the joys of child abuse.

Life is struggle and sleep.

When my beloved arrives, I yawn. When my beloved departs, I weep.

Shaw writes as if it were always midday.