Back at his chair he cannot remember what he was reading. He feels the books beside him to find the one that is warm.

Because it's his bad luck to be the best.

What do you look at while you’re making up your mind? Ours is not a reflective culture, we do no raise our eyes up to the hills. Most of the time we decide the critical things while looking at the linoleum floor of an institutional corridor, or whispering hurriedly in a waiting room with a television blatting nonsense.

I think it's easy to mistake understanding for empathy - we want empathy so badly. Maybe learning to make that distinction is part of growing up. It's hard and ugly to know somebody can understand you without even liking you.

The worm that destroys you is the temptation to agree with your critics, to get their approval.

It's hard to have anything isn't it? Rare to get it, hard to keep it. This is a damn slippery planet.

I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti