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

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.

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

All I wanted was what I'd already had. That exultation, that love. It was my one real home; I was a visitor everywhere else.

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

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.