I learned to write by reading the kind of books I wished I'd written.

There is no perfect time to write. There is only now.

I'm not pretending to be ingenuous; I know what I'm doing.

Perhaps growing up meant we put our knives away and feigned ignorance of the damage.

The death of something living is the price of our own survival, and we pay it again and again. We have no choice. It is the one solemn promise every life on earth is born and bound to keep.

This is how moths speak to each other. They tell their love across the fields by scent. There is no mouth, the wrong words are impossible, either a mate is there or he is not, and if so the pair will find each other in the dark.

Vengeance does not subtract any numbers from the equation of murder; it only adds them.