I don't really get romance. Bring me fish or moose, not flowers.

Once your writing is out there, you can't control how other people perceive it. All you can do is stand in your truth.

I was born on the same day as Edgar Allan Poe and Dolly Parton: January 19. I am absolutely certain that this affects my writing in some way.

Autumn. Pretty leaves, pumpkin pie and sweaters. Perfect weather for reading. Winter is great but I hate shoveling.

I think we learn slowly as a group, but we learn. The ozone layer is still there.

I find myself moved by social justice issues. I'm not sure where that will lead me. I'm willing to nurture it.

We can be the new brand of self-extincting dinosaurs or we can evolve.

Our ability to turn off empathy for specific kinds of humans and then use faulty logic to justify our beliefs is messily sociopathic.

I don't think anyone's normal.

In general, I'm careful when I'm dealing with subjects of deep cultural importance and write with abandon when I'm dealing with issues of personal dysfunction.

The push and pull of representing your world responsibly and your artistic license is a tricky balance.

Those who Discover the High Sea are the ones who are FREE to Be what they Want to Be.

Don't just discover . . . Encounter!

Time no longer mattered. He knew he would have plenty of it at his disposal. The sight of the star filled him with indescribable longing.

What kind of man would live a life without daring? Is life so sweet that we should criticize men that seek adventure? Is there a better way to die?

The one conclusive argument that has at all times discouraged people from drinking a poison is not that it kills but rather that it tastes bad.

The conspiracy theory of society... comes from abandoning god and then asking: "Who is in his place"

Know the true value of time; snatch, seize, and enjoy every moment of it.

If you owe $50, you're a delinquent account. If you owe $50,000, you're a small businessmen. If you owe $50 million, you're a corporation. If you owe $50 billion, you're the government.

One often reads that the 1950s was the golden age of Cuban music, but it was really one long phase, from 1937 to 1958, each year with its own splendour.

She wanted to lose herself in him. To tie his arms around her like a tourniquet. If she showed him how much she needed him, he'd run away.