I'm a pretty uncomplicated person. I live a very simple life with my family and I enjoy very ordinary things.

Attention shifted to him like sunflowers turning to the sun.

hills that stand soft and a sky that stands high and blue, and the sun setting behind a windmill, and always, always, hazy strings of mountains that fall and fall away on the horizon.

One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.

And that's the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.

A man who has no conscience, no goodness, does not suffer.

Nothing good came free. Even love. You paid for all things. And if you were poor, suffering was your currency.

But time, it is like charm. You never have as much as you think.

The desert weed lives on, but the flower of spring blooms and wilts.

I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.

Quiet is peace. Tranquility. Quiet is turning down the volume knob on life. Silence is pushing the off button. Shutting it down. All of it.

It is important to understand the objective of every race. Sometimes it is important to win. Sometimes it is more than enough if you just complete the race.

There were times in 'Adaptation' during the editing where I really thought, 'Okay, well, this was a noble failure. I tried to do something good, but this is not going to work.'

When a man or woman, young, or old, takes a place on the picket line for even a day or two, he will never be the same again.

I sometimes follow people who attract my curiosity in the street for five, ten minutes.

People are going to like 3-D in their family photos.

Don't let bridges you cross be bridges you burn.

I have a different purpose in writing each novel. Some of them seem more similar than others, but the purposes are always different.

Come and take your seat, Lady Dorina.

… it was raining on Himmel Street when the world ended for Liesel Meminger. The sky was dripping. Like a tap that a child has tried its hardest to turn off but hasn’t quite managed.

Getting even is one reason for writing.