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She lies like the moon lies, a different face every night, all but one of them false, and the one true face as barren and hard as stone. Why do you believe her?

“Love is what we say it is,” she said fiercely. “That’s all I know. That’s all anyone knows about it. I’m sorry.”

“But, Corbet, there were things—between us—”

“You imagined many of them. You wanted them to be true, and so they were. But only to you.”

I didn’t know anymore what love meant, or why we were not all better off without it.

Do you care for me at all? Or do you only need me?

It is the nature of the writer to question the validity of his world and yet rely on his senses to describe it. From what other tension can great literature be born?

When they give you things, ask yourself why. When you're grateful to them for giving you the things you should have anyway, ask yourself why.

The times you lived through, the people you shared those times with — nothing brings it all to life like an old mix tape. It does a better job of storing up memories than actual brain tissue can do. Every mix tape tells a story. Put them together, and they can add up to the story of a life.

Tonight, I feel like my whole body is made out of memories. I'm a mix-tape, a cassette that's been rewound so many times you can hear the fingerprints smudged on the tape.

Politics is nothing but common action to secure more favorable living conditions.

He was silent a moment, struggling. He said finally, “But you had a right to be angry.”

“Yes. But not to hurt those I love, or myself.”

Nobody will admit his own mental inferiority, even to himself.