It seems an insult to the night to speak of purpose and intent, when this common moment is so brimming full of blessed design tranquility. All things follow their course.

What is written beneath this heavy handsome book cover will count, so sayeth this cover.

When I write something, every word of it is meant. I can't say it enough.

And so this young one, this young one whom I had so loved, I had to forsake, no matter how broken my heart, no matter how lonely my soul, no matter how bruised my intellect and spirit.

If you want to be a writer, write. Write and write and write. If you stop, start again. Save everything that you write. If you feel blocked, write through it until you feel your creative juices flowing again. Write. Writing is what makes a writer, nothing more and nothing less.

All the mortal world is a lethal enemy during those hours between dawn and dusk.

Garden of Pain, I need you. What were the songs of beasts to the cries of sentient souls?