So now what? What happens when words fail us?

She thought I was...soulful, by which I think she means that I don't say much and I always look vaguely pissed off.

Every time people force themselves to carry on with a book they're not enjoying, they reinforce the idea that reading is a duty.

Sequels are very rarely a good idea, and in any case, the success of the book changed my relationship with the club in some ways.

She was trying to say something else; she was trying to say that the inability to articulate what one feels in any satisfactory way is one of our enduring tragedies. It wouldn't have been much, and it wouldn't have been useful, but it would have been something that reflected the gravity and the sadness inside her. Instead, she had snapped at him for being a loser. It was as if she were trying to find a handhold on the boulder of her feelings, and had merely ended up with grit under her nails.

I'm human. That's how humans spend their time, doing shitty things.

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.