When I write something, every word of it is meant. I can't say it enough.

I will write things, he was thinking. I will write something meaningful and wonderful someday. I can do that. And I'll dedicate it to you because you're the first person who ever made me think I could.

Thank God he killed the guy. Oh, now, wait a minute. What kind of a prayer was that!

It was as if this night were only one of thousands of nights, world without end, night curving into night to make a great arching line of which I couldn’t see the end, a night in which I roamed alone under cold, mindless stars.

A perfectly evil Devil makes even less sense than a perfect God.

Oh, my darling, wish you were here! And my dark soul is happy again, because it does not know how to be anything else for very long, and because the pain is a deep dark sea in which I would drown if I did not sail my little craft steadily over the surface, steadily towards a sun which will never rise.

To learn and to love, that is what we are here for, any activity which is not grounded in one of these two is a waste of time.