Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you.

At times I believed that the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one and the same, that when my book ended I'd end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat empty.

There are moments when a kind of clarity comes over you, and suddenly you can see through walls to another dimension that you'd forgotten or chosen to ignore in order to continue living with the various illusions that make life, particularily life with other people, possible.

And so he did the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life: he picked up his hat and walked away.

Part of the work of writing a novel is to uncover the symmetries or connections that make it whole, which might not reveal itself at first.

We met each other when we were young, before we knew enough about disappointment, and once we did we found we reminded each other of it.

I know there is a moral to this story, but I don't know what it is.