He died fighting for what he believed in.

Alex decided he’d had enough. He put down his knife. “All right,” he said. “You’ve made it pretty clear that you don’t want to work with me. Well, that’s fine. Because I don’t want to work with you either. And for what it’s worth, nobody would ever believe you were my mom because no mom would ever behave like you.” “Alex…,” Carver began. “Forget it! I’m going back to London. And if you’re Mr. Byrne asks why, you can tell him I didn’t like the jelly, so I went home to get some jam.

The worst time to feel alone is when you're in a crowd.

Authors have odd relationships with their creations They owe their fame and fortune to their characters but feel enslaved by them.

To enjoy something fully, you had to own it.

All that sadness. All that anger. It is the smoke that gets into your eyes. If you do not blow it away, how can you hope to see?

Do you realise how much trouble you're in?" "Perhaps I'll have some Weetabix after all.