“At some point you have to set aside snobbery and what you think is culture and recognize that any random episode of Friends is probably better, more uplifting for the human spirit, than ninety-nine percent of the poetry or drama or fiction or history every published. Think of that. Of course yes, Tolstoy and of course yes Keats and blah blah and yes indeed of course yes. But we're living in an age that has a tremendous richness of invention. And some of the most inventive people get no recognition at all. They get tons of money but not recognition as artists. Which is probably much healthier for them and better for their art.”

“And will you succeed? Yes indeed, yes indeed! Ninety-eight and three-quarters percent guaranteed!”

“Literary fiction and poetry are real marginalized right now. There's a fallacy that some of my friends sometimes fall into, the ol' "The audience is stupid. The audience only wants to go this deep. Poor us, we're marginalized because of TV, the great hypnotic blah, blah." You can sit around and have these pity parties for yourself. Of course this is bullshit. If an art form is marginalized it's because it's not speaking to people. One possible reason is that the people it's speaking to have become too stupid to appreciate it. That seems a little easy to me.”

“Are you okay?" Bill asks.Oh, these questions. I could say:"Yes," which would mean, "No.""No," which would mean, "No, but I'm probably not going to tell you what's the matter anyway.""Yeah," which would mean, "I've been better.""I guess," which would mean, "If you press me, I will probably give you some information.""I don't know," which would mean, "I am breaking down, take what you want - it's all lying in piles of smoky, burning debris on the floor anyway, and I want you to take some pleasure in it. Rub it on your body, you bastard. Love it. Yes, I have post-traumatic stress disorder. Yes, my relationship with Becca is falling apart. Yes, I am spiraling downward. Yes, yes, yes, okay?Everything is fucked up! Is that what you want to hear? Is it? Is it?""I don't know," I say.”

“Life goes on. Get over it. You're still young. It'll get better. Blah, Blah, Blah”

“Bethany." His quiet voice intruded.Her heart turned over heavily. "This is real right?"His face contorted as if he were in pain. "Yes, it's real."Crazy people probably did things like this all the time. Asked their imaginary alien friends if they were real, and of course, they'd say yes.”