Never Apologize. Never Explain.

It's Their Skins I'm Peeling," She Said. "the Skins Of The Insipid Scribblers, Which I Graft To The Page, Creating Monsters Of Meaninglessness.

A Cliché Is Like A Coin That Has Been Handled Too Much. Once Language Has Been Overly Handled, It No Longer Leaves A Clear Imprint.

I Decided That If I Was Never Going To Sell Anything As Long As I Lived, I Might As Well Do What I Want To Do 'cause Then At Least I Would've Done What I Wanted To Do In Life. What's That Worth?

It Wasn't Awful To Be Dead. The Stillness Would Almost Be A Relief. She Wouldn't Want Pain, She Wouldn't Want To Be Wounded Or Mutilated. She Could Never Shoot Herself Or Jump Off A Building. But Being Dead Wasn't Unthinkable.

If This Was A Sandalwood Pyre She Would Have Thrown Herself In And This Paper She'd Become Would Have Caught Fire And She And Him Could Sail Away Like Two Birds.