Truly, life is wasted on the living, Nobody Owens. For one of us is too foolish to live, and it is not I.
If you want to call it that. But it is a very specific sort of magic. There’s a magic you take from death. Something leaves the world, something else comes into it.
Because there are mysteries. Because there are things that people are forbidden to speak about. Because there are things they do not remember.
The view changes from where you are standing. Words can wound, and wounds can heal. All of these things are true.
He was alone in the darkness once more, but the darkness became brighter and brighter until it was burning like the sun.
I watch my heart disappearing into her rosebud mouth. My Valentine’s jest somehow seems less funny.
I wonder if I shall ever see her again, and I realize that I scarcely care. I can feel the sheets beneath me, and the cold air on my chest. I feel fine. I feel absolutely fine. I feel nothing at all.
Lies and half-truths fall like snow, covering the things that I remember, the things I saw. A landscape, unrecognizable after a snowfall; that is that she has made of my life.
Fear is contagious. You can catch it. Sometimes all it takes is for someone to say that they’re scared for the fear to become real. Mo was terrified, and now Nick was too.
But how can you walk away from something and still come back to it?
Actually I didn’t shoot a man in Reno just to watch him die, but he could tell I was extremely cross.
It is neither fair nor unfair, Nobody Owens. It simply is.
So the day became one of waiting, which was, he knew, a sin: moments were to be experienced; waiting was a sin against both the time that was still to come and the moments one was currently disregarding.
You don’t have to stay anywhere forever.
Her other mother smiled brightly and the hair on her head drifted like plants under the sea.
The world seemed to shimmer a little at the edges.
The fallen autumn leaves were slick beneath Bod’s feet, and the mists blurred the edges of the world. Nothing was as clean-cut as he had thought it, a few minutes before.
Being a writer of fiction isn’t like being a compulsive liar, honestly.
If a Devil is one who dares, when others hold back, then I am happy to play the Devil in this Mystery, boy.
When the first living thing existed, I was there waiting. When the last living thing dies, my job will be finished. I’ll put the chairs on the tables, turn out the lights and lock the universe behind me when I leave.