“I don’t know what I’m looking for.”“What not?”“Because … because … I think it might be because if I knew I wouldn’t be able to look for them.”

“You know, people think I’m a little crazy because of what I do for fun, but I don’t think I have anything on you.”

“I know I am a writer because until I’m writing I don’t know what I know.”

“Now look at me! Take a good look! I was born and I knew I was alive and I knew what I wanted. What do you think is alive in me? Why do you think I'm alive? Because I have a stomach and eat and digest the food? Because I breathe and work and produce more food to digest? Or because I know what I want, and that something which knows how to want—isn't that life itself? And who—in this damned universe—who can tell me why I should live for anything but for that which I want?”

“Listen to me. I’m shy. I’m not stupid. I can’t meet people’s eyes. I don’t know if you understand what that’s like. There’s a whole world going on around me, I’m aware of that. It’s not because I don’t want to look at you, Lucinda. It’s that I don’t want to be seen.”

“If I look confused it’s because I’m thinking.”