“My father hated radio and could not wait for television to be invented so he could hate that too. ”

“I could tell that my parents hated me. My bath toys were a toaster and a radio.”

“Andrew hated to see her humiliated and pathetic like this; but he half hated her too for landing herself in it, when any idiot could have seen...”

“I was still searching for someone to blame for my suffering. I really wanted someone to transfer my hate to, so that I could stop hating myself.”

“He was her enemy, and she hated him because she could not hate him enough.”

“He could never forgive her for "cheating" on his father. His words, not hers. A child's word. "Selfish bitch," he'd called her once, he who knew nothing of selfishness or bitchery, no more than he knew of selflessness or whatever the opposite of bitchery was (sophrosyne?), knew only his own colossal ego, too self-centered even to understand why he couldn't simply dismiss her as evil and forget it. Sweet Christ how she hated him! But no. No more than she hated his father. It was past that. Caught in impossibilities, but knowing, at least, why she hated the part of herself she hated and why she could not escape, ever, for all the grinning cow-catchers and whistling boats and twinkling propellers in Christendom. Ah, Christendom! she thought.”