“After ten pages I felt that Nietzsche was reading me, not I him.”

“Other nights, Ayrs likes me to read him poetry, especially his beloved Keats. He whispers the verses as I recite, as if his voice is leaning on mine.”

“Me, I want to bloody kick this moronic bloody world in the bloody teeth over and over till it bloody understands that not hurting people is ten bloody thousand times more bloody important than being right.”

“The silences after his last gasp were sung together by a blackbird. I lay there, my eyes unable to close. His were unable to open. I listed the places where I hurt, and how much. My loins felt ripped. Something inside had torn. There were seven places on my body where he had sunk his fangs into my skin and bitten. He'd dug his nails into my neck, and twisted my head to one side, and clawed my face. I hadn't made a noise. He had made all the noise for both of us. Had it hurt him?”

“She was widely read enough to appreciate my literary wit but not so widely read that she knew my sources. I like that in a woman.”

“come now, what's a reviewer?" I reasoned. "One who reads quickly, arrogantly, but never wisely...”

“Reality is the page. Life is the word.”