It doesn’t matter that you didn’t believe in us,” said Mr. Ibis. “We believed in you.
Because,” announced Tristran, “every lover is in his heart a madman, and in his head a minstrel.
That’s when I miss you most. When you’re here. When you aren’t here, when you’re just a ghost from the past or a dream from another life, it’s easier then.
You are young, and in love,” said Primus. “Every young man in your position is the most miserable young man who ever lived.
Or how it feels to be more important than kings and queens, than presidents or prime ministers or heroes, to be sure of it, in the same way that people are more important than brussels sprouts?
Were you always like this?’ ‘Like what?’ ‘A madman. With a time machine.’ ‘Oh, no. It took ages until I got the time machine.
The dead can’t hurt you, they’re dead. Living things can hurt you, living people can hurt you but the dead can’t.
People respond to the stories. They tell them themselves. The stories spread, and as people tell them, the stories change the tellers.
I’m the idiot box. I’m the TV. I’m the all-seeing eye and the world of the cathode ray. I’m the boob tube. I’m the little shrine the family gathers to adore.
If Hell is other people, thought Shadow, then Purgatory is airports.
If you can fake sincerity, you’ve got it made.
Shadow felt deeply uncomfortable: it was like watching an old wolf stalking a fawn too young to know that if it did not run, and run now, it would wind up in a distant glade with its bones picked clean by the ravens.
Go and make interesting mistakes, make amazing mistakes, make glorious and fantastic mistakes. Break rules. Leave the world more interesting for your being here.
You’re alive. That means you have infinite potential. You can do anything, make anything, dream anything.
I wanted to be an author as far back as I can remember, mixed with occasional bouts of wanting to be a werewolf when I grew up. But mostly, when I daydreamed, it was about being an author.
The one thing that you have that nobody else has is you. Your voice, your mind, your story, your vision. So write and draw and build and play and dance and live as only you can.
I once read that you die because you see the Angel of Death, and you fall in love. And you fall in love so hard your soul is sucked out through your eyes, and that’s the moment of death. It’s a lovely, strange old Jewish legend.
She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars.
I’d love to think that people in the future would gather in theatres, at conventions, and in darkened rooms, and read it out to each other.
Whatever it takes to finish things, finish. You will learn more from a glorious failure than you ever will from something you never finished.