. . . a shrunken old man, squashed into the chair like a stubbed-out cigarette.

Nadine found herself standing in front of a row of streaming faces, like waxworks of forgotten celebrities being melted down before coming back as more contemporary figures.

People are always ashamed of the misery that has befallen them, as though it were an act of divine retribution for a long-forgotten sin of theirs

The pain wasn’t tidal. That was the lesson of the dream which was really a memory. The pain only appeared to come and go. The pain was like the piling, sometimes covered and sometimes visible, but always there.

It was darker than a carload of assholes.

Kristen is looking at me like I'm a plume of smoke in the kitchen, right before you yell fire!