“You sick piece of shit," Adam says to him, his voice low, measured."Such unfortunate language." Warner shakes his head. "Only those who cannot express themselves intelligently would resort to such crude substitutions in vocabulary.”

“Dorian Gray frowned and turned his head away. He could not help liking the tall, graceful young man who was standing by him. His romantic, olive-coloured face and worn expression interested him. There was something in his low languid voice that was absolutely fascinating. His cool, white, flowerlike hands, even, had a curious charm. They moved, as he spoke, like music, and seemed to have a language of their own. But he felt afraid of him, and ashamed of being afraid.”

“An intelligent man is one who acknowledges his intelligence as that of those who surround him.”

“But he grins, so brilliantly, not even paying attention. “I love it when you say my name,” he says. “I don’t even know why.” “Warner isn't your name,” I point out. “Your name is *****.” His smile is wide, so wide. “God, I love that.”“Your name?”“Only when you say it.”“*****? Or Warner?”His eyes close. He tilts his head back against the wall. Dimples.”

“She leans over an says things that make him throw his head back an laugh like he never heard nuthin so funny in his life. It's sick-makin. Or it would be, if I cared. Which I don't. Liar, whispers the voice inside my head. Liar, liar, liar.”

“[T]he truth is that fullness of soul can sometimes overflow in utter vapidity of language, for none of us can ever express the exact measure of his needs or his thoughts or his sorrows; and human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.”