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.

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

No pain could match the emptiness of separation, no agony rivaled the unreality of not being with her.

I try to know as much as I can about a book before the beginning, but I never know exactly where it's going to end.

Everything creepy and Southern isn't Faulknerian, just like everything annoying isn't Kafkaesque.

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.

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.