And okay, fair enough, but there is this unwritten contract between author and reader and I think not ending your book kind of violates that contract.

Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin.

Amsterdam is like the rings of a tree: It gets older as you get closer to the center.

I feel like crying, so I must be crying, but it's impossible to tell because I'm underwater.

...And in freedom, most people find sin.

So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.

A taste so profound and complex that it can't even be compared to other tastes, only to emotions. Cheesy waffles, I was thinking, tastes like love without the fear of love's dissolution.

My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.

The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive.

All those paper people living in their paper houses, burning the future to stay warm.

I would always love Alaska Young, my crooked neighbor, with all my crooked heart.

Extra-marital affairs become things of legend… and often the undoing of legends… and mere mortals.

Leaders are builders. They build bridges to unite, not walls to divide.

I always thought I could coach. I just thought people were poor judges of good coaches.

I never like the way I look. I don't. I never look at myself.

I don't want to believe my own hype. I want to stay hungry and stay eager and be the best that I can be.

But as Shakespeare’s Richard II boasts, ‘Not all the water in the rough rude sea/Can wash the balm off from an anointed king.

The good Lord didn't create anything without a purpose, but the fly comes close.

I have no power, and that's what's so humbling.

The world thinks that music is a commercial commodity. I'm glad that is not my code.

How can you stop writing?