All relaxation does is allow the truth to be felt. The mind is cleared, like a dirty window wiped clean, and the magnitude of what we might ordinarily take for granted inspires tears.

There’s no path to liberation that doesn’t pass through the shadow.

What a miracle, that all we have to do to be beautifully loving creatures is just relax and allow.

At the last stages of the journey, there’s no journey at all.

It is possible to refine awareness itself so much that the emptiness of things, and the role mental construction plays, becomes a directly apprehended reality.

I think the best shaped box ever on earth is a coffin which can be handmade to escort the forever numb-hands.

I definitely wanted this win today and I don't want anybody to talk about my nerves anymore.

If all else fails, we will simply have to drug our attendants, overpower the guards, raise the oppressed peasants to arms, and take over the government.

It's amazing how I'm able to ride around on a bike. People kind of see it's me but since I'm on a bike, they think, "No, it's not her." And by the time they realize it's me, I'm already gone.

I'm reading George Saunders's story collection, "Tenth of December." He was my mentor at the University of Syracuse. The stories are mind-blowing like everyone says.

Each individual has their own unique color, which shines faintly around the contours of their body. Like a halo. Or a backlight. I'm able to see those colors clearly.

He learned to live with the truth. Not to accept it, but to live with it.

My whole life I try to make into a comedy, so it would be nice to see that onscreen.

Irish fiction is full of secrets, guilty pasts, divided identities. It is no wonder that there is such a rich tradition of Gothic writing in a nation so haunted by history.

I do want to write about Jane Whitefield again, but only when I have a good enough idea - something I've figured out about her that's news and that's worth a reader's time.