Everyone knew vice was bad for any real revolutionary climate.
It’s a dangerous feeling getting noticed, being wanted. Getting seen deep and proper, it’s shit hot but terrible too. It’s like being took over. And your whole skin hurts like you suddenly grew two sizes in a minute.
My heart is broken. It’s turned to a piece of stone. I’m no good. That’s what’s as bad as anything, that I’m no good anymore.
If you could fly you’d want to do something else, like swim.
As an unashamed 'romantic', I have always been subject to boredom. This boredom arises out of a kind of mistrust of the world. You feel you can't ignore it, can't take your eyes off it and forget it.
A single traumatic experience in childhood could be the foundation for a lifelong neurosis. One or two happy experiences in early childhood can make a man an optimist for life.
And it is quite as fair to observe that ignorance and slovenliness and the tradition itself are the inevitable products of just one thing: poverty.
To see him working on a digging was to see a man who had ceased to exist in the twentieth century, and who looked down on history like a golden eagle from some mountain peak.
Well, it takes some courage to be a murderer too, you know.
She seemed, anyhow, all light, glowing, like some bird or air ball that has flown in, attached itself for a moment to a bramble.
And Xander’s kiss, my first real kiss, makes me press my lips together, try to taste it again.
A sane man is a man who is fully awake. As he grows tired, he loses his ability to rise above dreams and delusions, and life becomes steadily more chaotic.
Is falling in love with someone’s story the same thing as falling in love with the person himself?
Sabina could not understand why the dead would want to have imitation palaces built over them. The cemetery was vanity transmogrified into stone.
She missed him the days when some pretext served to take him away from her, just as one misses the sun on a cloudy day without having thought much about the sun when it was shining.
Man is an animal who is trying to evolve into a god.
Our stories. We store them where moth and rust destroy.
See, a dog knows how to wait. Dogs are good at that. Only because half the time a mutt doesn’t even know it’s waiting.
The new man has lost faith in life, he has lost faith in knowledge.
I was like some diver at the bottom of the sea, so absorbed in contemplating the treasure of a sunken ship that I failed to notice the cold eyes of the octopus that lay in wait behind me.
She is always sad like a house on fire - always something wrong.
Need gave him power without his trying; need was the choicelessness she often felt around him.
If every second of our lives recurs an infinite number of times, we are nailed to eternity as Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross.
For, whereas, spring's couriers were once the evidence of our finer senses, now the Associated Press does the trick.
It was good to have people hate you—it kept you sharp.
The strange thing about your smile is that it has never once become less real or less intense. It is a smile caught from a moment in a still photograph, now extended into an indefinitely long moving film.
Her dad’s body is a castle for her. A shelter and a weapon. When he puts his arm around her shoulders she feels a mixture of terror and comfort.
I was left alone with this new feeling of lightness and content.
Her sorrow drags me down like a vengeful current.
You shouldn’t have isolated any of us unless your purpose was to drive us insane. You almost succeeded with me more than once. Humans need one another.
Then he began running away—until he realized there was no "away."
The goals we pursue are always veiled.
Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes.
Once man has a purpose and a belief, he is almost invincible.
But I suspect that God is what you do, not what or who you believe in.
This late age of the world’s experience had bred in them all, all men and women, a well of tears. Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; a perfectly upright and stoical bearing.
And then, thought Clarissa Dalloway, what a morning—fresh as if issued to children on a beach.
He felt helplessly weak, the kind of weakness that came with illness, with grief.
They grow up and they grow down and grab the earth between their hairy toes and bite the sky with violent teeth and never quit their anger.
The worst part of Leon’s fury was the way he whispered, this terrible tortured hissing from his mouth, giving his words a tone more deadly than a shout or a yell.
Until that time, her betrayals had filled her with excitement and joy, because they opened up new paths to new adventures of betrayal.
Sometimes it’s a mighty struggle to know what’s real and what’s just . . . a mirage.
The silence in the class was the kind Goober had never heard before. Stunned, eerie, suffocating.
They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force — nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others.
He is all for double lives, triple lives, lives lived in compartments.
No one should die alone.
Home: it was a phrase one used to mean four walls behind which one slept. There had never been a home.
To love makes one solitary, she thought.
Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
Home. Home. Home is a house in a photograph, a pink house, pink as hollyhocks with lots of startled light.