Something’s died in me,” she goes. “It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.

Every great or even every very good writer makes the world over according to his own specifications.

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read. Fought against it for a minute. Then looked out the window at the rain. And gave over. Put myself entirely in the keep of this rainy morning. Would I live my life over again? Make the same unforgivable mistakes? Yes, given half a chance. Yes.

This is awful. I don't know what's going to happen to me or to anyone else in the world.

Something’s died in me,” she goes. “It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.

That morning she pours Teacher's over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.

It ought to make us feel ashamed when we talk like we know what we're talking about when we talk about love.