I suddenly had a little epiphany: all the books we own, both read and unread, are the fullest expression of self we have at our disposal.

One thing about great art: it made you love people more, forgive them their petty transgressions. It worked in the way that religion was supposed to, if you thought about it.

It's no good pretending that any relationship has a future if your record collections disagree violently or if your favorite films wouldn't even speak to each other if they met at a party.

It's a mystery of human chemistry and I don't understand it, some people, as far as their senses are concerned, just feel like home.

But the internet had changed everything: nobody was forgotten anymore.

I'm very good at the past. It's the present I can't understand.

Unhappiness really meant something back then. Now it's just a drag, like a cold or having no money.