You shine like a beacon in a dark world.
He tried to listen to the conversations going on at the table and he found that he could no longer concentrate on what anyone was saying and which was worse that he was not interested in any of what he was able to hear.
The thin girl was gulping down one of Richard’s bananas in what was, Richard reflected, the least erotic display of banana-eating he had ever seen.
And, too ignorant to be scared, too young to be awed, Tristan Thorn traveled beyond the fields we know...
The cartoon me writes the books cartoon people read in the cartoon world, because they need things to read there too.
Writing may or may not be your salvation; it might or might not be your destiny. But that does not matter. What matters right now are the words, one after another. Find the next word. Write it down.
I think if you decide that any book is about Only One Thing you’re probably wrong. Even if that thing is in there.
He would go somewhere no one knew him, and he would sit in a library all day and read books and listen to people breathing.
Why are we talking about this good and evil? They’re just names for sides. We know that.
It’s harder to pick and choose when you’re dead. It’s like a photograph, you know. It doesn’t matter as much.
I don’t know much more than I did when I was alive. Most of the stuff I know now that I didn’t know then I can’t put into words.
Dreams shape the world.
It was a perfectly normal gerbil. It appeared to be living in an exciting construction of cylinders, spheres and treadmills, such as the Spanish Inquisition would have devised if they’d had access to a plastics molding press.
It’s not what I’d want for at my funeral. When I die, I just want them to plant me somewhere warm. And then when the pretty women walk over my grave I would grab their ankles, like in that movie.
If I come back, it will be a place, but it won’t be a home any longer.
Parameters are the things you bounce off to create art.
People talk about books that write themselves, and it’s a lie. Books don’t write themselves. It takes thought and research and backache and notes and more time and more work than you’d believe.
The young woman was crying, in the way that grownups cry, keeping it inside as much as they can, and hating it when it still pushes out at the edges, making them ugly and funny-looking on the way.
It was a dream, and in dreams you have no choices: either there are no decisions to be made, or they were made for you long before ever the dream began.
Know that diamonds and roses are as uncomfortable when they tumble from one’s lips as toads and frogs: colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.