“You're not going to die?"
"Not right this minute." And of course, saying something like that usually resulted in immediate dying. I braced myself for a stray meteorite falling through the roof to crush my skull.”

“I jammed my hand in my jacket pocket, bracing myself for the next hit, and feel something. Something grainy and small, sticking to the tips of my fingers: the sand from Commons Park.”

“What if you're right? Husbands die everyday, Delores, why, one is probably dying right now while you're sitting here weeping.”

“E'en though I would not, die I must;
Why stray I thus through life?”

“You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right?"

"All right," he whispers.”

“Give me enough words, enough attendant gravity, and I might fall into myself forever, crushed infinitely flat by my own hubris. It'd be a neat trick, I admit. I'd pay to see it — but from a safe distance, of course.”

“And if I wanted to kill myself, I wouldn't throw myself off a roof. And if I was going to throw myself off a roof, I would put on some pants before I did it.”

“I don't like myself you know. I love myself. I'm devoted to myself till my dying day. But I don't like myself.”

“They're fanatics. It's like expecting humanity from a falling rock. It's not going to have a fit of compassion and not crack your skull open.”

“I'm not myself.' '… You can never say that. You're just a piece of yourself right now that you don't like.”