“The whole world is like Whitewall's razors," I burst out. "It cuts us, and we bleed, but there's no purpose to it.”
“In today's disposable culture, we throw away people like we do razors, always assuming there's someone better out there to hang out with, or to work for- people who will never embarrass us, let us down or offend us.”
“A cut. That's what I felt. Words can cut, slice, like a razor.”
“I bite my fingernails till they look like disease, pull strips of my skin away. Get Daddy's razor out cabinet. Cut cut cut arm wrist, not trying to die, trying to plug myself back in. (111)”
“I want to be healed and whole and perfect again, like a misshapen slab of iron that comes out of the fire glowing, glittering, razor-sharp.”
“If you cut us, do we not bleed?' Mr. Vandemar pondered this for a moment, in the dark. Then he said with perfect accuracy, 'No.”