“What happened to a dream without a dreamer?”

“What was beauty unless you intended to use it, like a hammer, or a key? It was just something for other people to use and admire, or envy, despise. To nail their dreams onto like a picture hanger on a blank wall. And so many girls saying, use me, dream me.”

“If I were a poet, that’s what I’d write about. People who worked in the middle of the night. Men who loaded trains, emergency room nurses with their gentle hands. Night clerks in hotels, cabdrivers on graveyard, waitresses in all-night coffee shops. They knew the world, how precious it was when a person remembered your name, the comfort of a rhetorical question, “How’s it going, how’s the kids?” They knew how long the night was. They knew the sound life made as it left. It rattled, like a slamming screen door in the wind. Night workers lived without illusions, they wiped dreams off counters, they loaded freight. They headed back to the airport for one last fare.”

“A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.”

“All that was a dream, you couldn't hold on, you couldn't depend on frosted glass and Debussy.”

“her scruffy innoscense to impregnate with his dreams. reason was seductive, it gave the appearance of truth”

“He was so damn perverse, he preferred to dream it than to make it come true.”