They were coming back to his mother's neighborhood now, the eastern boundary of which was a bridge spanning a know of train tracks that cut through the city like a zipper.

But such was the way with people – they loved the things that made them miserable.

He’s looking for people he can be himself around. Aren’t we all?

When all you have is the memory of a thing, all you can think about is how the thing is gone.

She’d decided that about eighty percent of what you believe about yourself when you’re twenty turns out to be wrong. The problem is you don’t know what your small true part is until much later.

There are some mysteries of the universe that ought to remain mysteries.

What a treacherous thing a body was, how it so blatantly acted out the mind’s secrets.

It was true. Heard it on Cronkite.

A dormitory was a hopeless idea. Whoever thought of encasing two hundred girls in a concrete box?

The things we love the most are the most disfiguring. Such is our greed for them.

a trauma that breaks you into brand new pieces.

We earn to live, but we serve for a life.

Family isn’t something that’s supposed to be static, or set. People marry in, divorce out. They’re born, they die. It’s always evolving, turning into something else.

The time to being writing an article is when you have finished it to your satisfaction. By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you really want to say.

I've thought of becoming a photographer! To save my talent as a writer.

Family responsibility, yes, and always. Family bankruptcy due to the cruel rules of government, no.

Hip-hop is really standoffish. It's really competitive and it's really about who's number one all the time. Sometimes it gets out of hand.

Find people who love you unconditionally, surround yourself with them, and bring them the same level of intensity.

A lot of people are lonely. A lot of people are lonely even when they're surrounded by other people.

God is the ever active providence, by whose power systems after systems are being evolved out of chaos, made to run for a time and again destroyed.

Byron owed the vast influence which he exercised over his contemporaries at least as much to his gloomy egotism as to the real power of his poetry.