Is that a stake, Bones, or are you just happy with my new dress?” “In this case, it’s a stake. You could always feel around for something more, though. See what comes up.

The sh*t's gonna splatter, start buggin, yo..." Mencheres to Cat

Brush teeth. Wash hair. Rule undead world with an iron fist.

It was ironic; he held her captive, yet she’d captivated him.

You're shagging a woman who can turn into a dragon? Blast you, Charles, I am sick with envy!

I am a nice young girl here to pick up your granddaughter for the weekend... We're going to a Bible retreat to scare the devil out of her. - Bones to Cat's grandparents

You're not a woman," he said finally. "You're the Grim Reaper with red hair!

Careful, luv. I might be angry with you, but that doesn't mean I don't still want you. So if you do that again, I'll shag you right here, right now, and sod anyone who wants to watch

That face. That body. And you know he’s packing. Look at the angle on that dangle.

I couldn't help shaking my head as I looked at him. Ian slept like a baby every morning - well, a baby who continually kept one hand down his pants.

Nice to meet you, mate, and here's some advice: Don't even think about it. You try anything with her and I'll neuter you with my bare hands.

Perception does not define who we are, but it does define where we are limited, and where we are not yet free.

When I was younger we had a grape arbor, and my mom would go out and pick grapes and make grape jam in the sink - boil it, put it in jars, and give it away as gifts.

I found the material that people hated the most and used the most. So, I was going and try and see if I could play with it sculpturally.

We care what happens to people only in proportion as we know what people are.

That which is not daring is nothing.

She who laughs last may not invariably laugh best, but she does laugh.

Even a single hair casts its shadow.

Let me be surrounded by luxury, I can do without the necessities!

In the end, the overriding factor in whether or not you realize your dreams is going to be you. Not the world. YOU.

Postmodernism lives in the academy, where words abandon reality to serve ambition, and reputations rise on hot air.