Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.

I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me.

She stared at her reflection in the glossed shop windows as if to make sure, moment by moment, that she continued to exist.

I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.

I must bridge the gap between adolescent glitter and mature glow.

There I went again, building up a glamorous picture of a man who would love me passionately the minute he met me, and all out of a few prosy nothings.