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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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