Book: Cars like me

My mood changed like a roll of a dice.

Adam spoke in the kindest, most penetrating voice:
- We love one woman. And we can talk about it in a civilized way, as you just said. Which convinces me that we have passed that stage in our friendship when one of us has the power to suspend the consciousness of the other.
I didn't say anything, and he continued:
- You and Miranda are my oldest friends. I love you both. It is my duty to be open and careful with you. I express this when I say how sorry I broke a piece of you last night. I promise this will never happen again. But the next time you reach for my switch, I'll be incredibly happy to rip out your hand entirely, in the spherical joint.
He said it so kindly, as if offering help in a difficult matter.

“You're a narcissist,” she said. - You consider it an achievement if a woman finished with you. By your achievement.

I've had a decent experience of verbal battles with women to learn that responding to every attack is not necessary. And it's even better not to do that. When attacking, ignore the elephant and the rook. Forget logic and straight moves. Better rely on the horse.

Arguing with a loved one is an exquisite self-torture. Your ego turns against itself. Love burns him out with its Freudian opposite. And if death wins and love dies, who cares? Only you - you are furious and ready for madness. Until exhaustion sets in. You both know or hope that you will eventually come to a reconciliation, although it can take days or even weeks. And you have a presentiment of what tremendous tenderness and bliss this wonderful moment will bring with it. So why not do it now, why wait so long, why waste it on rage? But no one can do that. You are rolling downhill, losing control of your feelings and of the future. In the end, when you find yourself at the very bottom, you will need incredible efforts to make up for every unkind word. And you will not receive forgiveness before you accomplish the feat of self-denial.

Even though my mental anguish was like a tabloid novel, it didn’t make them less painful.

Parents combine in their child exactly two shaken liquids, and as a result, the child can get a face almost indistinguishable from the mother's, and not at all adopt the comedic gift of the father.

That is what cowardice is - an excess of imagination.

There is a special sensual pleasure in sleeping alone, at least for a while, until sleeping alone begins to take on a quiet sadness.

An old friend of mine, a journalist, once said that heaven on earth is to work all day alone in anticipation of an evening in an interesting company.