What does it mean to die when you can live until the end of the world?

Perhaps this is the only real evil left.

For several long moments we remained locked together, and I think I covered her hair with small sacred kisses, her perfume crucifying me with memories.

Obviously, a writer can't know everything about what she writes. It's impossible.

There are so many books I mean to read, and things I mean to see.

Sometimes dreams show me that my writing should go deeper. Dreams have not so much changed my work as deepened it.

And this lesson about mortal peace of mind I never forgot. Even if a ghost is ripping a house to pieces, throwing in pans all over, pouring water of pillows, making clocks chime at all hours, mortal will accept almost any "natural explanation" offered, no matter how absurd, rather than the obvious supernatural one, for what is going on.