Do you think there's such a thing as a ghost who masquerades as a person? Do you believe that there are people whose bodies are still alive here on earth but whose souls are already in hell?

Hope is a gift. You can't choose to have it. To believe and yet to have no hope is to thirst beside a fountain.

Memory plays tricks. Memory is another word for story, and nothing is more unreliable.

Tell the story, gather the events, repeat them. Pattern is a matter of upkeep. Otherwise the weave relaxes back to threads picked up by birds to make their nests. Repeat, or the story will fall and all the king's horses and all the king's men. . . . Repeat, and cradle the pieces carefully, or events will scatter like marbles on a wooden floor.

Materia had been just six when they docked in Sydney Harbour and her father said, 'Look. This is the New World. Anything is possible here.' She's been too young to realize that he was talking to her brother.

Writing is a hellish task, best snuck up on, whacked on the head, robbed and left for dead.

Depression is anger slowed down; panic is grief speeded up.