“Resurrection... ah, there's a word(that you should put right the fuck out of your mind and you know it).”

“I have no desire to sleep with you. I want to fuck you. And there is no such thing as perfectly good sex.  If it’s “perfectly good,” I mock in falsetto, “he should be shot in the head and put out of everyone’s misery. Sex either blows your fucking mind, or it’s not good enough. You want me to blow your fucking mind, Ms. Lane? Come on.  Do it.  Be a big girl.”

“V, you know I love you like a brother, right?""Yeah.""You feed her and I'll tear out your fucking throat out.”

“You ought to get out more. You know, Pérol, we should go out some evening, just you and me. Otherwise, you lose touch with reality. You know what I mean? You lose your sense of reality, and hey presto, you don't know which shelf you left your soul on. The shelf where you put your friends. The shelf where you put your women. Stage right, stage left. Or in the shoebox. You turn around and you find you're stuck in the bottom drawer, with the accessories.”

“If you believe in resurrection, you believe that the living God will put his world to rights and that if God wants to do that in the future, it is right to try to anticipate that by whatever means in the present.”

“Shane: "You've got to be feeling like hitting someone, and you know I like it. Smack me around. Fuck me. Get it out of your system."Ben: "You think that's what we do? Just that?"No, Shane wanted to say. You break me apart and put me back together right, so everything fits; everything’s smooth. You put your hands on me , and you hurt me, but you do it so fucking carefully. Trust you. Love you. Need you.”