When Rioch came to Millwall we were depressed and miserable. He's done a brilliant job of turning it all around. Now we're miserable and depressed.

We dwell amid pinheaded weasels who know only timid, the generic and the abacus.

To be extraordinarily happy and to have no concern for money drives some people nuts.

May we now all rise and sing the eternal school hymn: "Attack. Attack. Attack Attack Attack!"

I really hate those Internet freaks who take each thirty minute bundle of joy and turn it into a cult game of Where's Wally.

God’s timing determines the fruit of the harvest.

A blank cheque kills creativity.

What a tale he's told, what a bitter bowl of war he's drunk to the dregs.

Fear trumps empathy.

I attend surprisingly few shows. The type of theater that is popular today just doesn't appeal to me.

Blood circulated through her veins with the fluidity of a song that branched off into the most hidden areas of her body and returned to her heart, purified by love.

I'll say this, and this has nothing to do with gender or sexuality: You do not want to get licked in the face repeatedly by another human being. You just don't. It's not pleasant.

I must have the personal dialogue, the private time, with each painting in progress. I can't share it with anyone until it's done.

Finished persons are very common - people who are closed up, quite satisfied that there is little more to learn

People have to go through things in order to become the person they are today, and that's that.