The moment demanded action and all we had was paralysis.
Nothing apparently, disturbed the mans air of having his mind on something more important than you. You wanted to slap him.
I didn’t cry. Real things don’t make me cry. Only false or sentimental things can do that. In this respect I’m like most civilised humans.
That’s the problem with being alive,” she says, staring at the floor. “You’ve got to keep thinking of what to do.
Reading a book is a dangerous thing, Justine. A book can make you find room in yourself for something you never thought you’d understand. Or worse, something you never wanted to understand.
Open, the eyes of the dead are a travesty, a parody, make a fool of the deceased. Open, the eyes of the dead perform that most indecent subtraction, show the person without his life.
It’s why we close the eyes, too. The dead shouldn’t have to look on the lewd aliveness of the living.
It’s Big Brother with werewolves. Live coverage for a month, leading up to a group kill on full moon.
Hot tip: If you’re a human having a fling with a werewolf, break it off. Now.
Literature is humanity’s broad-minded alter-ego, with room in its heart for monsters, even for you. It’s humanity without the judgement.
You think God will never forgive you, but the only God is beauty and beauty always forgives. It forgives with its infinite indifference.
With adolescent egotism and a lot of money one can pretty much rule the world.
That’s what happens when you keep a secret from someone you love: you start to hate them for allowing you to prove your own willingness to deceive them.
One day the ordinariness will be terminally punctuated by the extraordinary full stop of death.
Life, like the boring drunk at the office party, keeps seeking you out, leaning on you, killing you with pointless yarns and laughing bad-breathed in your face at its own unfunny jokes.
There is no God and that’s His only commandment.
My parents believe in the happy endings to the stories of their children.
I’m too conceited for therapy.
Nothing holds love together like shared vice or collusive perversion.
I don’t know where the universe came from or what happens to creatures when they die. I don’t know if the whole thing’s an unravelling accident or an inscrutable design. I don’t know how one should live – but I know that one should live, if one can possibly bear it.