Chunks of his life fell away, so that while we were moving ahead in time, he was moving back.

We knew, finally, that the girls were really women in disguise, that they understood love and even death, and that our job was merely to create the noise that seemed to fascinate them.

Biology gives you a brain. Life turns it into a mind.

When I wrote The Virgin Suicides, I gave myself very strict rules about the narrative voice: the boys would only be able to report what they had seen or found or what had been told to them.

Basically what we have here is a dreamer. Somebody out of touch with reality. When she jumped, she probably thought she'd fly

It was one of those humid days when the atmosphere gets confused. Sitting on the porch, you could feel it: the air wishing it was water.

In the end, the tortures tearing the Lisbon girls pointed to a simple reasoned refusal to accept the world as it was handed down to them, so full of flaws.

Depression is like a bruise that never goes away. A bruise in your mind. You just got to be careful not to touch it where it hurts. It's always there, though.

You never get over it, but you get to where it doesn't bother you so much.

It was like autumn, looking at her. it was like driving up north to see the colors.

She held herself very straight, like Audrey Hepburn, whom all women idolize and men never think about.

A smooth sea never made a skilled marine.

I hate you.”He chuckled. “No, you don’t. Come here, I’ll apologize.”She snorted. “No, you won’t. You’ll feel me up.”“That too, ” he admitted with a smile. “Come here.

Don't you dare underestimate the power of your own instinct.

Art is always about overcoming obstacles between the inner condition and the skill for expression.

Recommended additon to the Consumer Privacy Bill of Rights: "A right to not have your data rise up and attack you."

What America demands in her black champions is a brilliant, powerful body and a dull, bestial mind.

Life is a waste without humor -- living is all about happiness and laughter.

In a certain sense the Good is comfortless.

You can stick a BMW badge on a dead cat - and people would still buy it.

Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.