“He had loads of colleagues, acquaintances, buddies. He was an emotional communist. Everyone counted equally, but none too much.”

“He's an angel. Isn't he supposed to love everyone, even the damned? Especially when said damned are his drinking buddies.”

“He's too much. Everything about him is too much. His emotions, his actions, his anger, his aggression.His love.”

“He had never quarreled much with this woman, while with the women that he loved he had quarreled so much they had finally, always, with the corrosion of the quarreling, killed what they had together. He had loved too much, demanded too much, and he wore it all out.”

“Wonder and love and great sorrow shook Schmendrick the Magician then, and came together inside him and filled him, filled him until he felt himself brimming and flowing with something that was none of these. He did not believe it, but it came to him anyway, as it had touched him twice before and left him more barren than he had been. This time, there was too much of it for him to hold; it spilled through his fingers and toes, welled up equally in his eyes and his hair and the hollows of his shoulders. There was too much to hold — too much ever to use; and still he found himself weeping with the pain of his impossible greed. He thought, or said, or sang, I did not know that I was so empty, to be so full.”

“He had loved too much, demanded too much, and he wore it all out.”