Together in our house, in the firelight, we are the world made small.
Life’s all about the revolution, isn’t it? The one inside, I mean. You can’t change history. You can’t change the world. All you can ever change is yourself.
I know it is a bad thing to break a promise, but I think now that it is a worse thing to let a promise break you.
I don’t like hope very much. In fact, I hate it. It’s the crystal meth of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard. It’s bad news. The worst. It’s sharp sticks and cherry bombs. When hope shows up, it’s only a matter of time until someone gets hurt.
Stop yelling. If everyone’s yelling, no one can be heard.
I will rain down silver and gold for you. I will shatter the black night, break it open, and pour out a million stars. Turn away from the darkness, the madness, the pain. Open your eyes and know that I am here. That I remember and hope. Open your eyes and look at the light.
For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.
I will go out again this very night with my rockets and fuses. I will blow them straight out of their comfortable beds. Blow the rooftops off their houses. Blow the black, wretched night to bits. I will not stop. For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.
Voice is not just the sound that comes from your throat, but the feelings that come from your words.
History is a Rorschach test, people. What you see when you look at it tells you as much about yourself as it does about the past.
I have done this – made the sad prince laugh. Made his grieving parents smile. None but me. Think you only kings have power? Stand on a stage and hold the hearts of men in your hands. Make them laugh with a gesture, cry with a word. Make them love you. And you will know what power is.
Turn away. From the darkness, the madness, the pain. Open your eyes and look at the light.
Most of the mess that is called history comes about because kings and presidents cannot be satisfied with a nice chicken and a good loaf of bread.
Hope is the crystal meth of emotions. It hooks you fast and kills you hard.
I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I’m lost in the music. Until I am the music – notes and chords, the melody and harmony. It hurts, but it’s okay because when I’m the music, I’m not me. Not sad. Not afraid. Not desperate. Not guilty.
Cripes Miss Wilcox, they’re not guns,? I said. No, they’re not Mattie, they’re books. And a hundred times more dangerous.
Beautiful people don’t need coats. They’ve got their auras to keep them warm.
It’s a good thing you and your pills weren’t around a few hundred years ago or there never would have been a Vermeer or a Caravaggio. You’d have drugged “Girl with a Pearl Earring” and “The Taking of Christ” right the hell out of them.
Why do you write?′ Because I love words and stories so much. Because I would be grief stricken every day of my life if I couldn’t write. Because I’m obsessed and compelled. Because I’d be utterly useless at anything else.