“After he scratched his head or rubbed his nose his fingers harbored something. The smell of self. Or again, the taste of incipient tears. Imagine the olfactory nerves sampling themselves, receptors registering their own configuration. The taste of self-inflicted suffering, of an evening trashed in spite, brought curious satisfactions. Other people stopped being real enough to carry blame for how you felt. Only you and your refusal remained. And like self-pity, or like the blood that filled your mouth when a tooth was pulled--the salty ferric juices that you swallowed and allowed yourself to savor--refusal had a flavor for which a taste could be acquired.”

—Jonathon Franzen