It was a truth that invaded her, like a dark disease, a truth too painful to talk about. And I was beginning to wonder if all I was doing was making it worse.

It’s always hard to lose somebody. It leaves a hole in you heart that never grows back.

Memories have no life. They're just pale reminders of a time that's gone-like faded photographs.

Trust, faith,good, bad... none of it matters. All you ever do is what you have to do. Follow your disires, fulfill your needs, escape from pain. That's all there is to it.

That's what happens. You just get on with it. There are no endings.

The days passed, as they do, and life went on.

Because some things are never meant to be anything more than a moment. And that was one of them.

The sadness, the silence, the darkness, the loneliness... all of it held in a simple little moment. It was just so... I don't know. Just so much.

I used to come here on my own sometimes... Id' stay down here for ages." Her voice was barely audible. "It's a good place for sadness.

I'm still living it now, every day, living it out in my mind - following the ups and downs, walking the pathways, reliving the moments of our Moonlight World... It's a day that never dies.

It won't make you feel any better, he told me, it might even make things worse for a while. But you mustn't let the sadness die inside you. You have to give it some life.

You could never be certain what you would find in a book that had spent time with someone else.

That's what it means to be a man. You do what you think is right, regardless of who it hurts, and whether it works out, because in the end you have to live with yourself.

Nature has created us with the capacity to know God, to experience God.

Chance does not work. Only choice will work. Your choice!

The writing process was some of the most exciting and rewarding moments of my life. It felt a lot like being in a band.

In order to dream, you need to have a springboard which is the facts... It gives it that touch of reality, and I think that's quite important... truth with fiction.

You're nice,' Cushie told him, squeezing his hand. 'And you're my oldest friend.' But they both must have known that you can know someone all your life and never quite be friends.

Really people only like the food that their mothers make.

Love is lust made meaningful. Hope is hunger made human.

Three things a wise man will not trust, The wind, the sunshine of an April day, And woman's plighted faith.