I had to nurture those doubts as if they were tiny, sickly kittens, until eventually they became sturdy, healthy grievances, with their own cat doors, which allowed them to wander in and out of our conversation at will.

Complaining about boring football is a little like complaining about the sad ending of King Lear: it misses the point somehow.

I'm not telling you that suicidal people aren't so far away from people who can get by; I'm telling you that people who can get by aren't so far away from being suicidal.

If you really wanted to mess me up, you should have got to me earlier.

I've committed to nothing...and that's just suicide...by tiny, tiny increments.

I fell in love with football as I was later to fall in love with women: suddenly, inexplicably, uncritically, giving no thought to the pain or disruption it would bring with it.

What good were real feelings anyway?