I wonder what it’s like for her, looking so much like a dead girl.

Most dystopian, classic and contemporary, paints a future world that puts a twist on present society - a future world that could plausibly happen.

Set fire to the broken pieces; start anew.

Dystopian, by definition, promises a darker story.

I think she's brave. I think that nobody has ever believed what she could be capable of. All her life, nobody was listening.

Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.

There's a hazy smile on her lips that won't go away, and her hair is a mess. It's like a brushfire filled with casualties.

‎I have always been fascinated by the ocean, to dip a limb beneath its surface and know that I'm touching eternity, that it goes on forever until it begins here again.

We writers are resilient souls.

Her mind is a bird that's trapped inside her skull, flapping and thrashing, never breaking free.

Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.

Stop concentrating on the leaves concentrate on d root cause where they came from.Curse or bless d cause

...our brains are minuscule fragments of the universe, much too small to hold all the facts of the world but not too idle to speculate about them.

Justice therefore demands that no one should do more ruling than being ruled, but that all should have their turn.

I don't really dig for answers from the producers and writers that much. I let things happen the way they're going to happen.

Being on the road and doing events is like getting kids ready for school for most families.

I want to see an honest press.

You may try — but you can never imagine what it is to have a man's force of genius in you, and yet to suffer the slavery of being a girl.

Nothing feels worse than other people's good times.

While their methods differ radically, artists and physicists share the desire to investigate the ways the interlocking pieces of reality fit together. This is the common ground upon which they meet.

She watched me with a creepy sort of detached curiosity, as if I were a bug crawling across the sidewalk in front of her. I wondered briefly if she was the ant stomper type.