“So you're here by yourself?"“Yes."“Seems like an odd place to come by yourself."“I needed to get away."“Woman trouble? That's another of my father's expressions."“No, actually. I poisoned my neighbor's dogs."After a moment she said, “How drunk are you?"“Quite."“Is that true?"“What?"“That you poisoned your neighbor’s dogs."“I’m afraid it is."“I have dogs."“Well, keep them away from me.”

“Really, how much of one’s life is made up of these private incidents; how submerged one is. You know, for example, that you will recover from a broken heart, but somehow that piece of information, that factoid, never arrives at the soul or the brain or the nervous system, yes, the nervous system, where it might do some good. But if you know you’re going to be all right, why then do you suffer so? To get there. To get where you know you are going to get to anyway. How pathetic, then, to feel about having arrived. I survived, you say. Yes, but what else would you do? No one dies from love. Come, come.”

“...the second time you see something is really the first time. You need to know how it ends before you can appreciate how beautifully it's put together from the beginning.”

“It's about the quality of the worry," I said. "I have happier worries now than I used to.”

“That’s the great illusion of travel, of course, the notion that there’s somewhere to get to. A place where you can finally say, Ah, I’ve arrived. (Of course there is no such place. There’s only a succession of waitings until you go home.)”

“It is an example of what films can do, how they can slip past your defenses and really break your heart.”

“She was a stirrer of the pot, a lover of intrigue and distress, a creature who seemed to draw oxygen from the spectacle of people at each other's throat, everybody in a state of upset and talking about her.”