“We may talk a good game and write even better ones, but we never outgrow those small wounded things we were when we were five and six and seven.”

“Our friendship was like our writing in some ways. It was the only thing that was interesting about our otherwise dull lives. We were better off when we were together. Together we were a small society of ambition and high ideals. We were tender and patient and kind. We were not like the world at all.”

“... it occurred to me that never again would he be seven years, one month and six days old, so we had better catch these moments while we can.”

“We were the ones on scene when everything went down. We weren't better. We weren't worse. We were just the ones standing in the blast radius.”

“We are always better than before when those we love inflict wounds upon us.”

“Before, I thought we could write about life only when we had recovered from our wounds; when we were able to touch old sores with a pen and not revive the pain; when we could look back free from nostalgia, madness, and a sense of grievance.But is this really possible? We are never completely cut off from our memory. Recollections provides the inspiration for writing, the stimulus for painting, and for some, the motivation even for death.”