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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.