Sorrow is not a raven perched persistently above a chamber door. Sorrow is a thing with teeth, and while in time it retreats, it comes back at the whisper of it's name.

The functions of intellect are insufficient without courage, love, friendship, compassion and empathy.

The whisper of the dusk is night shedding its husk.

Where there is cake, there is hope. And there is always cake.

Petting, scratching, and cuddling a dog could be as soothing to the mind and heart as deep meditation and almost as good for the soul as prayer.

Nothing is worse than being alone on the evening of the day when one's cow has exploded.

Only once in a generation does anything as fresh as a vomiting detective come along.

The hands of every clock are shears, trimming us away scrap by scrap, and every time piece with a digital readout blinks us towards implosion.

Most people tend to think the best of those who are blessed with beauty; we have difficulty imagining that physical perfection can conceal twisted emotions or a damaged mind.

Any drunk who has tried to put his car where a lamppost stands is a self-educated physicist.

Given my heritage and the ordeal of my childhood, I sometimes wonder why I myself am not insane. Maybe I am.

It ain't power that corrupts, it's the changes you put your head through getting it.

Forgiveness and restoration are two difference acts. Forgiveness can lead to restoration but restoration is not hinged to forgiveness.

There is no growth without risk. There is always something to be gained from any experience. It is up to us to interpret our truth of self.

Try to resist copying a blueprint from another person's ministry.

McDonald's is over with. But chips and candy and stuff, it's going to be hard to get away from that.

This is sort of the Cuban Missile Crisis on steroids, what we are doing to Russia right now, and I don't think this is a good idea.

When I'm training for 'True Blood,' I don't eat any sugar except for some fruit here and there. So it's no sugar, no bread, no real carbs all day.

The worst letters come from retired high school English teachers. They will literally take a book and pick it to pieces and send me 14 pages of notes.

Away! Away! Tempt me no more insidious love.

If they asked how I died tell them: Still angry.