Yes. We both have a bad feeling. Tonight we shall take our bad feelings and share them, and face them. We shall mourn. We shall drain the bitter dregs of mortality. Pain shared, my brother, is pain not doubled, but halved. No man is an island.
Words can be worrisome, poeple complex, motives and manners unclear, grant her the wisdom to choose her path right, free from unkindness and fear.
She had the feeling that the door was looking at her, which she knew was silly, and knew on a deeper level was somehow true.
I can get away before the storm hits. Away from a world in which opiates have become the religion of the masses.
I think most things are pretty magical, and that it’s less a matter of belief than it is one of just stopping to notice.
When you say words a lot they don’t mean anything. Or maybe they don’t mean anything anyway, and we just think they do.
If not for Death, they’d be content to simply exist, but with Death, well, their lives will have meaning – a boundary beyond which the living cannot cross.
It seemed to Coraline that it was crouching, and staring down at her, as if it were not really a house but only the idea of a house – and the person who had had the idea, she was certain, was not a good person.
It’s easier to lie to yourself when you say things out loud.
I felt very much like a hooker who had just been told she was a lady of the evening.
That is the eternal folly of man. To be chasing after the sweet flesh, without realizing that it is simply a pretty cover for the bones.
He had kissed her good night that night, and she had tasted like strawberry daiquiris, and he had never wanted to kiss anyone else again.
The past is always knocking at the door, trying to break through into today.
I always wanted to be a writer, but Alan Moore’s work and help inspired me to write comics. In some ways the biggest influence on me writing was Punk. There was the idea that you could do something by simply doing it.
Sexton: I think the whole world’s gone mad. Death: Uh-uh. It’s always like this. You probably just don’t get out enough.
Writing’s a lot like cooking. Sometimes the cake won’t rise, no matter what you do, and every now and again the cake tastes better than you ever could have dreamed it would.
Genre fiction, as Terry Pratchett has pointed out, is a stew. You take stuff out of the pot, you put stuff back. The stew bubbles on.
You know what killed off the dinosaurs, Whateley? We did. In one barbecue.
I move from dreamer to dreamer, from dream to dream, hunting for what I need. Slipping and sliding and flickering through the dreams; and the dreamer will wake, and wonder why this dream seemed different, wonder how real their lives can truly be.
Agnes was the worst prophet that’s ever existed. Because she was always right. That’s why the book never sold.