“It was that kind of a crazy afternoon, terrifically cold, and no sun out or anything, and you felt like you were disappearing every time you crossed a road.”

I can be quite sarcastic when I’m in the mood.

Did you ever get fed up?’ I said. ‘I mean did you ever get scared that everything was going to go lousy unless you did something?

Sleep tight, ya morons!

Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.

She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.

The worst thing that being an artist could do to you would be that it would make you slightly unhappy constantly.

Don’t hate me because I can’t remember some person immediately. Especially when they look like everybody else, and talk and dress and act like everybody else.

It’s funny. All you have to do is say something nobody understands and they’ll do practically anything you want them to.

He said you were the only one who was bitter about S’s suicide and the only one who really forgave him for it. The rest of us, he said, were outwardly unbitter and inwardly unforgiving.

Know your true measurements and dress your mind accordingly.

I don’t even know what I was running for—I guess I just felt like it.

Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.

Most stuff that is genuine is better left unsaid.

She was not one for emptying her face of expression.

A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn’t stink a little bit of the writer’s pride in having given up his pride.

I told her I loved her and all. It was a lie, of course, but the thing is, I meant it when I said it. I’m crazy. I swear to God I am.

You act like a cold cold man, frozen beyond repair, hardly uttering any word, action laced demeanor. Yet everything about you, from your ebony eyes, to your dazzling smile, makes me feel warm inside.

Paper and pen petrify me, for they pierce right through me, drawing deep blue blood, leaving me utterly cold.

The outer part of me so cold like an armor impenetrable. The words you throw at me ricochet and hit you in the heart.

Sweater, n.: garment worn by child when its mother is feeling chilly.

And she is going to dance, dance hungry, dance full, dance each cold astonishing moment, now when she is young and again when she is old.

I love how British guys dress for the cold.

It’s january, it’s cold and I search the sky for summer like I always do.

Cold hearts cannot serve warm love.