“I remember every single spot of light that ever gouged a shadow beside your bones.”

We get something to do and as soon as we’ve got it, it gets us.

We grew up founding our dreams on the infinite promise of American advertising.

Oh, we are going to be so happy away from all the things that almost got us but couldn’t quite because we were too smart for them!

Death is the only real elegance.

Nothing could have survived our life.

Being in love, she concluded, is simply a presentation of our pasts to another individual, mostly packages so unwieldy that we can no longer manage the loosened strings alone.

Life has puffed and blown itself into a summer day, and clouds and spring billow over the heavens as if calendars were a listing of mathematical errors.

Nothing annoys me more than having the most trivial action analyzed and explained.

Look closer and you’ll see something extraordinary, mystifying, something real and true. We have never been what we seemed.

I take a sun bath and listen to the hours, formulating, and disintegrating under the pines, and smell the resiny hardihood of the high noon hours. The world is lost in a blue haze of distances, and the immediate sleeps in a thin and finite sun.

And only weaklings who lack courage and the power to feel they’re right when the whole world says they’re wrong, ever lose.

A vacuum can only exist, I imagine, by the things which enclose it.

I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs.

I play the radio and moon about…and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.

Memories should be sharp when one has nothing else to live for.

Women sometimes seem to share a quiet, unalterable dogma of persecution that endows even the most sophisticated of them with the inarticulate poignancy of the peasant.