The trouble with excuses, however, is that they become inevitably difficult to believe after they’ve been used a couple of times.

I thought of my mother (...). Freud wrote that no man is secure in the love of his mother can ever be a failure. Well, I had been busy proving that theory wrong.

The trouble with excuses, however, is that they become inevitably difficult to believe after they’ve been used a couple of times.

A novelist is someone who sits around the house all day in his underwear, trying not to smoke.

You're all I care about," I said. "No. And me. The person I am when I'm with you, the way I see myself and know myself. That person who lives only when I'm with you.

The only things I regret, and the only things I'll ever regret are things I didn't do. In the end, that's what we mourn. The paths we didn't take. The people we didn't touch.

On a ship thats made of paper, I would sail the seven seas. (Just to be with you)