“He would write it for the reason he felt that all great literature, fiction and nonfiction, was written: truth comes out, in the end it always comes out. He would write it because he felt he had to.”

“He didn't understand what happened to him. He felt like a piece of paper that had once had coherent writing on it but had been through the wash. He felt roughened, bleached, and worn out along the fold lines.”

“It kind of felt like it was my first time. It had been a life altering experience, and I knew that if for whatever reason this didn't work out with him, he would always be the one I compared everyone else to. He would always be the one that totally rocked my world.”

“He felt no relief. He felt no closure. He knew then he would have to leave Poughkeepsie. He’d go very far away so he wouldn’t be tempted to come back.”

“For this, that now was coming, he had very little curiosity. For years it had obseessed him; but now it meant nothing in itself. It was strange how easy being tired enough made it.Now he would never write the things he had saved to write, until he knew enough to write them well”

“Yet, if he would not lie, what could he write but truth?”