“Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love? Why does anyone ever make love?”

“It was the first time I had ever made love. I wondered if he knew that. It felt like crying. I wondered, Why does anyone ever make love?”

“Why does anyone commit murder?' he asked in a low voice.
'I-'I blinked.'How should I know?'
'Three reasons,' Christopher said. He held up one finger. 'Love.' Another finger. 'Revenge.' And finally, a third finger. 'Profit…”

“You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back.”

“Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction.”

“Does anyone ever get this right?
I feel no love.”

“I made such a fool of myself,” she lamented.
“Love does not make you a fool.”
“He didn’t love me back.”
“That does not make you a fool, either.”
“Just tell me …” Her voice cracked. “When does it stop hurting?”
“Sometimes never.”

“Sometimes love makes you selfish. Sometimes it makes you stupid. Sometimes it reminds you why you love your gun.”

“Love means both beautiful and ugly. Because it does not discriminate against anyone.”

“God, how we get our fingers in each other's clay. That's friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of each other.”