My first love was everything, all at once. The kind of love you fight for, the kind of boy you fight for.
The only things I regret, and the only things I’ll ever regret are things I didn’t do. In the end, that’s what we mourn. The paths we didn’t take. The people we didn’t touch.
I try to know as much as I can about a book before the beginning, but I never know exactly where it’s going to end.
No pain could match the emptiness of separation, no agony rivaled the unreality of not being with her.
The trouble with excuses, however, is that they become inevitably difficult to believe after they’ve been used a couple of times.
A novelist is someone who sits around the house all day in his underwear, trying not to smoke.
It was a once in a lifetime thing. I hate to think it but I bet it’s true. It’s too bad for us that our once in a lifetime happened when were too young to handle it.
I never felt so large and important as I did when being in love was everything. I saw you walking a foot above the earth and I remembered that was where I used to walk.
All I wanted was what I’d already had. That exultation, that love. It was my one real home; I was a visitor everywhere else.
Everything creepy and Southern isn’t Faulknerian, just like everything annoying isn’t Kafkaesque.
If my mind could have made a sound, it would have burst a row of wineglasses.