I don't know where I belong, so I'm free. No one's got a hold on me.

Just be yourself. You don't have to put on an act."
"To be myself, I have to put on an act," Ginny said bitterly.
"What's that mean?"
"It means I don't know who I am.

He was going to hell in the old hand basket, and he decided that maybe he would take someone with him.

I'm a stranger in my own life.

The PRI is going to have a tremendous identity crisis. It's an internal cataclysm for them.

Perhaps—and this was her most persistent thought, the thought that stayed with her and came suddenly to trouble her at odd moments, and to comfort her—suppose, actually, she were not Natalie Waite, college girl, daughter to Arnold Waite, a creature of deep lovely destiny; suppose she were someone else?