I'm interested in what the virtues of all those things are, especially for the kind of person who's made their own world that revolves around them, like writers do. It seems especially precious.

We were always getting away with something, which implied that someone was always watching us, which meant that we were not alone in this world.

He breathed out the bitter air that makes women doubt everything, and I breathed it in, as I had always done. I expelled my dust, the powder of everything I had destroyed with doubt, and he pulled it into his lungs.

I steeled myself against laughter; I would rather die than laugh. I didn’t laugh, I did not laugh. But I died, I did die.

That's the artist's job, really: continually setting yourself free, and giving yourself new options and new ways of thinking about things.

If there were a map of the solar system, but instead of stars it showed people and their degrees of separation, my star would be the one you had to travel the most light-years from to get to his. You would die getting to him.

We really wanted to know all the unknowable things about each other and how we were the same and how we were different, if we even were, maybe nobody is.