Reading begets reading.

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.

You had to live in your own bubble. You couldn't force your way into someone else's, because then it wouldn't be a bubble any more.

In other words, it's one of those books you thrust on your partner with an incredulous cry of "This is me!

A man who wants to die feels angry and full of life and desperate and bored and exhausted, all at the same time; he wants to fight everyone, and he wants to curl up in a ball and hide in a cupboard somewhere. He wants to say sorry to everyone, and he wants everyone to know just how badly they've all let him down.

When you get older, it feels like happy memories and sad memories are pretty much the same thing. It is all just emotion in the end. And any of it can make you weep.

I burst into tears and I cry and cry until it feels as though it is not salt and water being squeezed from my eyes, but blood.