And I sit here without identity: faceless. My head aches.

A ring of gold with the sun in it? Lies. Lies and a grief.

I wanted to do everything once and for all and be through with it.

Apparently, the most difficult feat for a Cambridge male is to accept a woman not merely as feeling, not merely as thinking, but as managing a complex, vital interweaving of both.

Jealousy can open the blood, it can make black roses.

There is nothing like puking with somebody to make you into old friends.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.