He couldn't even tell whether he was angry or contrite, whether it was forgiveness he wanted or the power to forgive.

I'm only interested in stories that are about the crushing of the human heart.

Remember what Anatole France said about the dog masturbating on your leg--'Sure, it's honest, but who needs it?

He couldn't even tell whether he was angry or contrite, whether it was forgiveness he wanted or the power to forgive.

What a subtle, treacherous thing it was to let yourself go that way! Because once you've started it was terribly difficult to stop; soon you were saying "I'm sorry, of course you're right", and "Whatever you think is best", and "you're the most wonderful and valuable thing int he world", and the next thing you knew all honesty, all truth, was as far away and glimmering, as hopelessly unattainable as the world of the golden people.

He knew it was possible for shame to be nursed and doctored like an illness, if you wanted to keep it separate from the rest of your life, but that didn't mean there'd be any way to keep from knowing it was there.

...you found you were saying yes when you meant no, and “We’ve got to be together in this thing” when you meant the very opposite ... and then you were face to face, in total darkness, with the knowledge that you didn’t know who you were. And how could anyone else be blamed for that?