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“She left me the way people leave a hotel room. A hotel room is a place to be when you are doing something else. Of itself it is of no consequence to one's major scheme. A hotel room is convenient. But its convenience is limited to the time you need it while you are in that particular town on that particular business; you hope it is comfortable, but prefer, rather, that it be anonymous. It is not, after all, where you live.

When you no longer need it, you pay a little something for its use; say 'thank you sir,' and when your business in that town is over, you go away from that room. Does anybody regret leaving a hotel room? Does anybody who has a home, a real home somewhere , want to stay there? Does anybody look back with affection of even disgust, at a hotel room when they leave it? You can only love or despise whatever living was done in that room. But the room itself? But you take a souvenir. Not, oh, not to remember the room. To remember, rather, the time and place of your business, your adventure. What can anyone feel for a hotel room? One doesn't any more feel for a hotel room than one expects a hotel room to feel for its occupant.”
― Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye

“Een jaar en twee maanden later, op een nevelige januarimorgen met sneeuw in de lucht van het jaar 1850, zaten de heer en mevrouw Grünlich met hun kleine, driejarige dochtertje in de met lichtbruin hout betimmerde eetkamer op stoelen, die 25 mark per stuk hadden gekost, aan het ontbijt.”
― Thomas Mann, Buddenbrooks: Verfall einer Familie

“You're short. . . Why are you short."
"I was born this way."
"Mentally challenged, not vertically challenged, darlin. Why are you short?”
― Nicci Harris, Our Thing: The Ballerina & The Butcher Boy