I claim Dickens as a mentor. He's my teacher. He's one of my driving forces.

When you make his sandwiches, put a sexy or loving note in his lunch box.

I had many wonderful experiences, received beautiful letters, and my Christian books received substantive and thoughtful reviews. But there was always argument, dispute, questions as to what I "really" believed, lectures from here and there on "the real truth," etc.

Words. Borne on the ever swelling current of hatred, like flowers opening in the current, petals peeling back, then falling apart.

My conscience is killing me, isn't it? And when you're immortal that can be a really long and ignominious death

Old truths and ancient magic, revolution and invention, all conspire to distract us from the passion that in one way or another defeats us all.

You look good to me, you damnable little devil, good to embrace and good to love.