“That’s not true. I love you more than my life, Pigeon,” he said, hurt.“That’s exactly what I mean. That’s crazy talk.”“It’s not crazy. It’s the truth.”

“That’s crazy-rare.” “And now it’s extinct.”

“Love always hurts. That’s one thing I know you know. But it’s worth it. That’s what you don’t know. Yet.”

“See? That’s it,” he said, waving his hand. “That’s part of what makes us so great, Luce. I’m crazy. You’re crazy. Together, we make our own brand of crazy.”

“What is is?’‘I don’t know. I don’t even know if it’s true or if it’s a dream.’‘That’s alright. Truth and Dreams are always getting muddled.”

“Sometimes I ain’t sho who’s got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he ain't. Sometimes I think it ain't none of us pure crazy and ain't none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It’s like it ain't so much what a fellow does, but it’s the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it. […] That’s how I reckon a man is crazy. That’s how he can’t see eye to eye with other folks. And I reckon they ain't nothing else to do with him but what the most folks says is right.”