Dreaming led to disappointment, and disappointment to a kind of depressed funk that wasn’t easy to shake. Better to stay in the gray than get eaten by the dark.

He's so busy looking inside people to find the good that he misses the knife they're holding in their hand.

I bet it gets pretty lonely with only your ego for company.

The thing that scares me is that some part of me understands where they're coming from. They took everything from us, you know? Why shouldn’t we be able to take it back if we have the power to?

If you're going to knock down my suggestion, you'd better have one to replace it.

And people like you are the reason we have middle fingers.

I used to dream about turning back time, about reclaiming the things I'd lost and the person I used to be.

He's just like a stallion. Wild and kicking on the outside, but a heart soft as satin on the inside. Just waiting for the right girl to break him in.

You get a good review, and it’s like crack. You need another hit. And another. And another. I know authors are like Tinkerbell and generally need applause to survive, but it’s a slippery slope.

—I don't want to lose you —Then why are you the one that keeps letting go?

The darkest minds never fade in the afterlight.

Sorry. Don't need sorry. Not in this house. Sorry laid the hearth here. Sorry ways and sorry people and heavensent grief and heartache to make you pine for your death.

Mishaque was a stouty blend of Irish "shrek" mixed with crazy Jafakain, his front was car dealing.

The latest page I've been working is about the organization of the pantheon of the gods. Who's indebted to whom, how they are related, who screwed whose uncle or grandmother, all of that.

Art is ruled uniquely by the imagination.

anger and jeaously are first cousins!

I am glad. I am now an Olympic medallist.

There are two kinds of rebellion. The first is one in which the slave demands something that the tyrant has got. The second is one in which he demands something that the tyrant has not got.

Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale.

The process of nature cannot be evil.

I have not hated the man, but his faults.