Our children are weird. Nicely phrased.

Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin.

Amsterdam is like the rings of a tree: It gets older as you get closer to the center.

I feel like crying, so I must be crying, but it's impossible to tell because I'm underwater.

...And in freedom, most people find sin.

So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.

A taste so profound and complex that it can't even be compared to other tastes, only to emotions. Cheesy waffles, I was thinking, tastes like love without the fear of love's dissolution.

My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.

The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive.

All those paper people living in their paper houses, burning the future to stay warm.

I would always love Alaska Young, my crooked neighbor, with all my crooked heart.

I'm tired of being set upon by crazed Christians one minute and unbridled libertines the next. Girls, I'm going camping.

Her eyes always had a frantic, lost look. He could never cure her eyes of that.

I don't want to throw rice. I want to throw rocks.

The way to belief is short and easy, the way to knowledge is long and hard.

What we look for does not come to pass; God finds a way for what none foresaw.

Men are wonderful. I adore them. They always give you the benefit of the doubt.

Noblest minds are easiest bent.

We know of our own knowledge that we are human beings, and, as such, imperfect. But we are bathed by the communications industry in a ceaseless tide of inhuman, impossible perfection.

While as he yet doth breath extend, no man is blest; behold the end.

Wickedly funny to read and morally bracing as only good satire can be.