See the TURTLE, ain’t he keen? All things serve the fuckin Beam.
When a long book succeeds, the writer and reader are not just having an affair; they are married.
We never know. Any day could be the day we go down, and we never know.
Because things can get better, and if you give them a chance, they usually do.
Frightened people live in their own special hell. You could say they make it themselves, but they can’t help it. It’s the way they’re built. They deserve sympathy and compassion.
I loved you then and I love you now and I have loved you every second in between.
Everyone should have this, he thought, and perhaps, at the end, everyone does. Perhaps in their time of dying, everyone rises.
When I die, I guess I’ll go with a library card in one hand and an OVERDUE stamp in the other. Well, maybe there’s worse ways.
I write for love, but love doesn’t pay the bills.
I don’t understand this at all. I don’t understand any of this. Why does a story have to be socio-anything? Politics... culture... history... aren’t those natural ingredients in any story, if it’s told well? I mean... ′ He looks around, sees hostile eyes, and realizes dimly that they see this as some sort of attack. Maybe it even is. They are thinking, he realizes, that maybe there is a sexist death merchant in their midst. ‘I mean... can’t you guys just let a story be a story?
Storytelling is as natural as breathing; plotting is the literary version of artificial respiration.
People are blind to explanations that lie outside their perception of reality.
If our faith is strong, we’ll go to heaven, and we’ll understand the whole thing when we get there. As if life were a joke, and heaven the place where the cosmic punchline is finally explained to us.
This is how we bring about our own damnation, you know-by ignoring the voice that begs us to stop. To stop while there’s still time.
And you, CONSTANT READER. Thank God you’re still there after all these years. If you’re having fun, I am, too.
Maybe people really don’t change as much as we think. Maybe they just... maybe they just stiffen up.
He wanted to tell Luke that he loved him. But there were no words, and maybe no need of them. Or telepathy. Sometimes a hug was telepathy.
At three in the morning the blood runs slow and thick, and slumber is heavy. The soul either sleeps in blessed ignorance of such an hour or gazes about itself in utter despair. There is no middle ground.
I think that, even if we forget each other, we’ll remember in our dreams.
Life is a wheel, and it always comes back around to where it started.