Originally tragedies were bought on to remind us of real events, and that such things naturally occur, and that on life's greater stage you must not be vexed at things, which on the stage you find so attractive.

What stands in the way is the way.

The obstacle is the way.

Genius is an infinite capacity for causing pain.

Don't cry anymore, she tells herself. Just do one thing at a time. Get from hour to hour and day to day like a frog jumping on lily pads.

This world is not enough, but it will have to do. You can either hold on or let go.

I wish I knew what You were up to. But whatever it is, help me to get through it, please. Though maybe it's not Your doing; I don't believe for an instant that what's going on out there is what You meant. I have enough daily bread, so I won't waste time on that. It isn't the main problem. The problem is getting it down without choking on it.

In reduced circumstances you have to believe all kinds of things. I believe in thought transference now, vibrations in the ether, that sort of junk. I never used to.

Every war is the war for whoever's lived through it.

The pain gave me something definite to think about, something immediate. It was something to hold onto.

The Fall was ongoing, but its trajectory led ever downward.

I thought she'd get angry then, but all she said was, "You are not unique in the universe. No one has an easy time in life. But maybe God has effed up—as you put it—your life for a reason." "And I can hardly fucking wait to find out what that is," I said.