Quotes from Susanna Moore

I'd kissed him on the mouth, put my tongue in his mouth, and I knew that I did not know how to stop it. I had forgotten how to stop it.

I cannot keep to the point. Perhaps I am afraid. It is not easy for me to admit that. My courage is one of the few things about myself that I do not doubt. It is one of the things in which I believe . . . But I would be crazy not to be afraid now.

How do you get me into these fucking conversations? You think too fucking much.

They stopped talking the moment they saw me, as if they were speaking some language I couldn't even begin to understand. And they probably were.

In a matter of seconds I, too, had come to despise her.

He wished to remain elusive even to himself. He was full of contradiction—penitential confessional eagerness and a secrecy that kept him opaque and in motion.

Afraid, now that I knew what I wanted. What I did not want. I did not want him to hurt me.

I don't want to go home," he said, as if he were telling the truth at last. I wondered in sudden detachment if I would at last find out what it was that he wanted from me.

I did not bother to explain myself. It would have taken months. Years.

I suddenly wondered if he thought that I was powerless, and then I realized that I was powerless.

The killer might do it again and then we could start to put things together. Leave our minds open, let what we know work its way round our brain. Some smart detective might pick up something.

Listen, you don't want me. Only you don't know it. You just think you do. I've been thrown out of a lot of places.

I'm sorry," I said. "You didn't do nothing," he said in surprise. "I can be sorry even if it's not my fault." He looked at me as if this were a new idea for him.

Do you want to come in?" I asked, surprised at myself. "No," he said. I realized that I wanted him to come inside. Which surprised me even more.

I said nothing, fearful that he would stop.

He doesn't seem to have a private life, only a secret life which appears to overlap and even be a part of his work life.

I felt such desire for him, such murderous and vengeful desire, that I was trembling.

I asked him not to hurt me. It seems to be what women say. And men. It did not stop him.

You got to get out when it's no fun anymore. You'll know when it's over the day it's no fun anymore. You know what I'm saying?

I have been telling a lot of lies lately.

He was anxious to go, reluctant to go. Ready to go.

She don't want you around all fucking day. Many women that I know take you home, you make love, it's all over, you get up, you can see the relief on their faces: Not only does he fuck me well, he leaves.

That's not what I meant." "What?" "I want to know what you did with her." He looked at me. "Why?" he asked at last. "I don't know. So I can imagine it. So I can sleep." He started to speak, then stopped himself. Then he began again.

Something I have never mastered. Something I've never even tried to master.