Reading is an activity of the imagination, and the imagination in question is not the writer's alone.

The difference between being Achilles and almost being Achilles is the difference between living and dying.

Real people are made out of a whole lot of things—flesh, bone, blood, nerves, stuff like that. Literary people are made out of words.

The real reason for quest is always self-knowledge.

Every language has a grammar, a set of rules that govern usage and meaning, and literary language is no different. It’s all more or less arbitrary of course, just like language itself.

If a story is no good, being based on Hamlet won't save it.

Rain falls on the just and the unjust alike.

In order to remain undead, I must steal the life force of someone whose fate matters less to me than my own.' I've always supposed that Wall Street traders utter essentially the same sentence.

Please note, I am not suggesting that illicit drugs are required to break down social barriers.

Now, Joyce being Joyce, he has about five different purposes, one not being enough for genius.

Worthy character is best forged from a life of consistent, correct choices centered in the teachings of the Master.

When there's music in your soul, there's soul in your music.

I've had bad luck with both my wives. The first divorced me and the second won't.

The media's the most powerful entity on earth. They have the power to make the innocent guilty and to make the guilty innocent, and that's power. Because they control the minds of the masses.

A lot of people ask me when I do a stunt, 'Jackie, are you scared?' Of course I'm scared. I'm not Superman.

Life is uncharted territory. It reveals its story one moment at a time.

For me personally, to hop onboard and use the amazing success and blessings in my life to pull off something like the 30/30 Project is awesome.

Not being secure affects us as humans. It throws us off our balance. It puts us in disarray.

Falsehood is for a season.

Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.