Affection makes fools. Always, without exception, love digs a channel that's sooner or later flooded by the briny water of despair.

A small town is nothing but eyes and gaping maw; it pecks at its own like a flock of vicious birds.

You're not supposed to have iron bars around you - no one is supposed to have that. You're supposed to fall down hills and get lonely, and find your own food and get wet when it rains. That's what happens when you're alive.

Life is lived on the inside. What's outside doesn't matter.

I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.

I suppose that's what happens when you make other people's lives miserable: life gets miserable back at you.

Love is like moonlight or thunder, or rain on a tin roof in the middle of the night; it is one of those things in life that is truly worth knowing.