I was typing away while everybody was dropping acid and smoking grass. I was known as my own square.

I didn’t look to the shore much after this first long and memorable glimpse. I looked up at Heaven and her court of mythical creatures fixed forever in the all powerful and inscrutable stars. Ink black was the night beyond them, and they so like jewels that old poetry came back to me, the sound even of hymns sung only by men.

Oh Lestat, you deserved everything that's ever happened to you. You better not die. You might actually go to hell.

Something in me was responding now as the audience responded, not in fear, but in some human way, to the magic of that fragile painted set, the mystery of the lighted world there.

The library furnished our dreams, helped us shape our ambitions, made up people of books and ideas and grand designs.

I’d thought I knew what beauty was in women; but she’d surpassed all the language I had for it.

Merciful death. How you love your precious guilt