You never know the palette of the one you kill until the mind disgorges its finest colours.

I can't keep up with Stephen King's output.

Do we have to confess our loves to everyone?" asked Thorne softly. "Can we not keep some secrets?

And what if I never go of my own free will? Will you pitch me from some window so that I must fly or fall? Will you bolt all shutters after me? You had better, because I'll knock and knock and knock until I fall down dead. I'll have no wings that take me away from you.

It's an awful truth that suffering can deepen us, give a greater lustre to our colours, a richer resonance to our words.

I never changed after that. I sought for nothing in the one great source of change which is humanity. And even in my love and absorption with the beauty of the world, I sought to learn nothing that could be given back to humanity. I drank of the beauty of the world as a vampire drinks. I was satisfied. I was filled to the brim. But I was dead. And I was changeless.

The supernatural world has always been more real to me than the real world.