Promises were like bad checks, easy to write and hard to cash.

You must not make the mistake of thinking that because nothing lasts, nothing matters.

I loved Molly. Or at least I told myself I did. Or, if what I felt for her was not love, it was at least a plausible imitation, a convincing substitute.

The conversation was mesmerizing, not for its content but for the cadences of the talk, the rhythm we fell into when we were alone, now as before. Every conversation between friends or lovers creates its own easy or awkward rhythms, hidden talk that runs like a subterranean river under even the most banal exchange.

Some pious men may find this truth unorthodox and bitter: But Nature, Chance, and Time ensure survival of the fitter!

Personally, I don't believe in anything more supernatural than what you read about in the Bible, and I only believe that one day out of seven.

I won't put my ignorance on an altar and call it God. It feels like idolatry, like the worst kind of idolatry.