There is no patience so terrible as that of the deranged.

Weep all the artful tears you like. You shall never make my hard heart the softer.

With every step I took away from her, the movement at my heart and between my legs grew more defined: I felt like a ventriloquist, locking his protesting dolls in to a trunk.

Your heart-as you call it-and hers are alike, after all: they are like mine, like everyone's. They resemble nothing so much as those meters you will find on gas-pipes: they only perk up and start pumping when you drop coins in.

Why do gentlemen's voices carry so clearly, when women's are so easily stifled?

I've given up reading the papers. Since the world's so obviously bent on killing itself, I decided months ago to sit back and let it.

I never expected my books to do even as well as they have. I still feel grateful for it, every single day.