“ . . . he thought how easy it would be to simply kick his typewriter onto the floor and smash it to pieces among the wads of discarded paper that overflowed his waste basket.”

“Dan didn't know how violently he was biting. Just the absolute closeness. Once upon a time he'd hated that body, smashed it, kicked it, beat it into a bleeding pulp, but now he wanted to crawl into it, or kill it, and maim it, to possess it, eat, tear, destroy it, to take it and never leave it again.His. The body was his, the man was his. His, his, his alone!”

“He scowled at the typewriter, at the empty sheet of paper.”

“There are two moments worthwhile in writing, the one when you start and the other when you throw it in the waste-paper basket.”

“It's curious how easy it is to tell a piece of paper what you don't dare say to someone's face.”

“I'm pounding and kicking him and I'm all me and I'm kicking and kicking into the face that's crying and begging for mercy, kicking, kicking...only for real, for cold ice real, it's not my foot smashing his face to a pulp, but my stick smashing the puck into the board, and it's not him crying, but me.”