“I'm a poet, and I like my lies the way my mother used to make them.”

“I'm really very sorry, but it is not my fault. People are so annoying. All my pianists look exactly like poets, and all my poets look exactly like pianists”

“Right, except I'm not going to lie to my mom, because what kind of bastard lies to his own mother?”

“Who am I? I'm a poet. My business? Writing.How do I live? I live.In my happy poverty I squander like a prince,my poems and songs of love.In hopes and dreams and castles-in-air,I'm a millionaire in spirit .”

“I'm never going to get used to that," he said, smiling. "Used to what?""The way I feel like I'm going to explode every time you come close. The way my head fills up with just you when you do that.”

“The lie came out so easily it frightened me. I used to feel sick to my stomach when I heard Mother tell a lie. How can you do it? How do you live with yourself? I used to wonder. But here I was, lying to Miss Paulsen and smiling while doing it.”