“Seasick," Scatty mumbled. "That's exactly what it feels like. Only worse.”

“The generalizing writer is like the passionate drunk, stumbling into your house mumbling: I know I'm not being clear, exactly, but don't you kind of feel what I'm feeling?”

“I feel too much. That's what's going on.' 'Do you think one can feel too much? Or just feel in the wrong ways?' 'My insides don't match up with my outsides.' 'Do anyone's insides and outsides match up?' 'I don't know. I'm only me.' 'Maybe that's what a person's personality is: the difference between the inside and outside.' 'But it's worse for me.' 'I wonder if everyone thinks it's worse for him.' 'Probably. But it really is worse for me.”

“All things are so very uncertain, and that's exactly what makes me feel reassured.”

“Cloud walking. I like that. And yeah, that's exactly how you make me feel. Like my feet will never touch the ground.”

“Some things are better than sex, and some are worse, but there's nothing exactly like it.”