Still, the illusion of love had, in its time, led to stranger depravities.

Was there anything quite so painful, so fraught with the possibilities of hurt, as gift giving within a family?

Soon would come the night in which there was no more work – not the work of the hands, nor the work of the mind, nor the work of the heart.

Still, for all that, her life had lacked passion. The demons had never come for her.

Education teaches children to lose interest in what matters most to them.

Just because you pretend the universe doesn't have teeth doesn't mean you won't get eaten in the end.

The body was an organic machine, period, and God was a figment of its fitful imagination.

But men are such strange creatures, really. I think most of them would rather we weren’t around at all, so they could just spend time mooning over each other. Hero worship and all that stuff.

The past is the past. It’s the present we should worry about.

It was a failure of pedagogical nerve, she reminded herself, to give up on a student.

All desire, Tracy had had occasion since to think, is to some degree monstrous.

I have read of the great wars of ages past, and men slaughtered by the tens of thousands. And we give but fleeting consideration to their deaths, for it is our nature to banish such thoughts.

Books should not be loved selfishly. Neither books nor anything else, in fact.

Your thoughts become your BELIEFS. Your beliefs become your TRUTH. Your truth becomes your STORY. Your story IS your REALITY.

Be content with what you have. You have enough to live happy life.

Where there is young people and vitality, you're going to find punk rock.

If you're driving, don't forget your car.

The people I met and the places I been Are all what make me the man I so proudly am.

Climate change is very real. It is a serious issue it should be treated that way... It is not just ours here in Iowa or even in the United States.

In comparing various authors with one another, I have discovered that some of the gravest and latest writers have transcribed, word for word, from former works, without making acknowledgment.

When I stop at a stop sign, I don’t think about the distance I’ve crossed. I just wish I never had to stop.