God, why didn't you make us all dogs?

Who knew that better than I, who had presided over the death of my own body, seeing all I called human wither and die only to form an unbreakable chain which held me fast to this world yet made me forever its exile, a specter with a beating heart?

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.

I wasn't sent here to find angels! I wasn't sent here to dream of them. I wasn't sent here to hear them sing! I was sent here to be alive. To breathe and sweat and thirst and sometimes cry.

Memory was a curse, yes, he thought, but it was also the greatest gift. Because if you lost memory you lost everything.

The most difficult novel I have had to write in terms of just getting it done was The Vampire Lestat. It took a year to write.

I'm going to keep on dealing with the supernatural in a lot of ways.