The moon, too, abases her subjects, but in the daytime she is ridiculous. Your dissatisfactions, on the other hand, arrive through the mailslot with loving regularity, white and blank, expansive as carbon monoxide. No day is safe from news of you, walking about in Africa maybe, but thinking of me.

I think I am worthwhile just because I have optical nerves and can try to put down what they perceive. What a fool!

Living with him is like being told a perpetual story: his mind is the biggest, most imaginative I have ever met. I could live in its growing countries forever.

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? For all my despair, for all my ideals, for all that - I love life. But it is hard, and I have so much - so very much to learn.

If there's anything I look down on, it's a man in a blue outfit.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?