Every heart is made of stories.
Airports should all belong to the same country. The country of Crappacia. Or Bleakovania. Or Suckitan.
I’ve always admired your rather formidable will, your refusal to back away from difficulties, but sometimes strength isn’t about perseverance. Sometimes it’s about knowing when to quit.
Be careful what you show the world. You never know when the wolf is watching.
Because just for a few seconds, someone else hurts, too. For just a few seconds, I’m not alone.
It’s only the body that’s gone. Only the body. There’s a part that doesn’t go in the ground, a part that stays inside you forever.
Who needs make-believe monsters when there are so many real ones.
She was everything he wanted from his life, the very measure of his dreams.
I struggled for a long time to get anything published.
I just love historical fiction.
The rain comes down harder as I write. It sheets off the roof in torrents. I wish it would pound against me. Pound the life from my body. The flesh from my bones. The pain from my heart.
Namaste. It was a Nepalese greeting. It meant: The light within me bows to the light within you.
Bravery is feeling fear but doing the thing anyway.
Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.
I think your vision gets better as you get older.
Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine...
Never take what’s offered, always ask for more.
You can’t argue with the dead, no matter what you say, they always have the last word.
Who knew that listening to a guy sleep could be so much deeper than sleeping with a guy.
I’m wishing he could see that music lives. Forever. That it’s stronger than death. Stronger than time. And that its strength holds you together when nothing else can.