Always, always, always referring every goddam thing that happens right back to our lousy little egos.

It isn't very serious, I have this tiny little tumor on the brain.

I mean they don't seem able to love us just the way we are. They don't seem able to love us unless they can keep changing us a little bit. They love their reasons for loving us almost as much as they love us, and most of the time more.

A confessional passage has probably never been written that didn't stink a little bit of the writer's pride in having given up his pride.

I'm one of the little foxes that spoil the grapes.