“You know, I've been thinking: all the women in the books you like -- Sartre and Camus and all that -- they don't really exist. Not as people. They're only there to wait for the men. To love them and be loved back or not -- mostly not; to be beaten up or killed; to appear as a face on the wall of Meurseault's cell--”

“If you love someone and they don't love you back, wait for them. If they still don't love you after waiting, they aren't really worth your time. Darn, why did I waste all that time waiting then?”

“Most people do not know how to love anymore. They don't know how to give it, or worse, even how to receive it. They have been so hurt, that they have put up walls to protect themselves, but at the same time, these walls have shut out the people that love them. Our most basic need is that we all want and need to be loved. Love comes from God. God is love.”

“You know, it's a funny thing about writers. Most people don't stop to think of books being written by people much like themselves. They think that writers are all dead long ago--they don't expect to meet them in the street or out shopping. They know their stories but not their names, and certainly not their faces. And most writers like it that way.”

“I know you. I've known you my whole life. I've been waiting. Waiting for you to make an appearance. Waiting all these years.I knew you in the womb.”

“But nothing on this earth is guaranteed, when you get right down to it, you know? I've been thinking about that. About how your kids aren't really YOURS, they're just these people that you try to keep an eye on, and hope you'll all grow up someday to like each other and still be in one piece. What I mean is, everything you get is really just on loan. Does that make sense?""Sure," I said. "Like library books. Sooner or later they've all got to go back into the nightdrop.”