It bothered me in a kind of Charles Manson way to have a brown smear of blood on my wall but I also liked it because every time I looked at it I was reminded that I was, at that very moment, not bleeding from my face. And those are powerful words of hope, really.

But whatever, we descendants of the Girl Line may not have wealth and proper windows in our drafty homes but at least we have rage and we will build empires with that, gentlemen.

It’s hard to grieve in a town where everything that happens is God’s will. It’s hard to know what to do with your emptiness when you’re not supposed to have emptiness.

I learned another thing, which is that just because someone is eating the ashes of your protagonist doesn't mean you stop telling the story.

But love, like a mushroom high compared with the buzz from cheap weed, outlasts grief.

Perhaps depression is caused by asking oneself too many unanswerable questions.

Life being what it is, one dreams not of revenge. One just dreams.