“I should get rid of those boxes, full of all that junk. Burn them all – make a bonfire in the garden and burn the bloody lot of it. All the captured bits of me, the scraps and pictures and notes and letters, burn it all, burn the lot of it – every last trace of me. Every last bit of me – up in flames and gone for good. Forgotten and gone. Rid me of these memories... Yes, that’s something to do this afternoon. Get out into the garden, and burn the past... To ashes with.”

“The unassuming inconspicuous halfway time between tomorrow and today, those slow frozen hours in-between, they’re something of a comfort to the drunk rolling home.”

“Burn, burn burn -- burn your wicked garden down ... Burn, burn burn -- burn your wicked garden to the ground ”

“You’ll never get rid of me, either… No matter which side of the grave we’re on. I’ll haunt you, chase you all around eternity, whatever it takes, but it’s you and me until the stars burn out.”

“Is it any wonder, since, when near the fire, I was melted and burned, if now that it's extinguished outside me, it besets and consumes me inside, and bit by bit reduces me to ashes?”

“A strange girl, all phosphorous and cantharides, burning with every desire! And burning with every vice!”

“Every time I change wives I should burn the last one. That way I'd be rid of them. They wouldn't be around to complicate my existence. Maybe, that would bring back my youth, too. You kill the woman and you wipe out the past she represents.”