And when a strong man is sweet, even Goddesses look down from Mount Olympus.

It was as if the empty nights were made for thinking of him. And sometimes I found myself so vividly aware of him it was as if he had only just left the room and the ring of his voice were still there. And somehow, there was a disturbing comfort in that, and, despite myself, I’d envision his face.

The world changes, we do not, therein lies the irony that kills us.

-You are on the verge of being truly mad. -No, not at all. Look at me. I can tie my shoelaces. See?

... what I fear in writing is the safe decision.

I was the vampire Lestat again. I was back in action. New Orleans was once again my hunting ground.

Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly. Only if you do that can you hope to make the reader feel every particle of what you, the writer, have known and feel compelled to share."---Forward to Kafka's Short stories