“Tumult, weeping, many new ghosts.
Heartbroken, aging, alone, I sing
To myself. Ragged mist settles
In the spreading dusk. Snow skurries
In the coiling wind. The wineglass
Is spilled. The bottle is empty.
The fire has gone out in the stove.
Everywhere men speak in whispers.
I brood on the uselessness of letters.”

“I think it's important to take a break, you know, from the public eye for a while, and give people a chance to miss you. I want longevity. I don't want to get out there and run myself ragged and spread myself thin.”

“I think that by staying out of shape at the age of 33 I'm doing myself a huge favor for my future. There will never be anyone commenting on how I've 'let myself go.' I've gone. It's gone. It's not going, it's GONE.”

“Underneath her kiss I was so unguarded
Every bottle’s empty now and all those dreams are gone
Ah, but the song carries on … so holy”

“I am now working on a still life with a bottle and other objects spread out on a plane and it seems to be turning out well.”

“I spill water on myself all the time at nice restaurants. I've run into poles and knocked myself out.”

“… dusk is the time when men whisper of matters about which they remain silent in the full light of the sun.”

“He heard them whispering—whispering… The independence seeped out of him and he walked the streets alone, afraid of men's cynical eyes and the incessant hiss of whispering.”

“There's a special quality to the loneliness of dusk, a melancholy more brooding even than the night's.”

“Sometimes when I'm alone, I take the pearl from where it lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena. To make myself put a name to the thing I've lost. But what's the use? It's gone. He's gone. Whatever existed between us is gone. All that's left is my promise to kill Snow. I tell myself this ten times a day.”