If my work has a theme, I suspect it is a simple one: that most human beings are inescapably alone, and therein lies their tragedy.

There's never been anything funny about a woman dying for love.

He found it so easy and so pleasant to cry that he didn’t try to stop for a while, until he realized he was forcing his sobs a little, exaggerating their depth with unnecessary shudders. … The whole point of crying is to quit before you coined it up. The whole point of grief itself was to cut it out while it was still honest, while it still meant something. Because the thing was so easily corrupted

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

He had won but he didn't feel like a winner.

Acting might bring on emotional exhaustion, but writing tired your brains out. Writing led to depression and insomnia and walking around all day with a haggard look.

Our ability to measure and apportion time affords an almost endless source of comfort.