I was raised among books, making invisible friends in pages that seemed cast from dust and whose smell I carry on my hands to this day.

A story is a letter that the author writes to himself, to tell himself things that he would be unable to discover otherwise.

We all give up great expectations along the way.

Do you know the best thing about broken hearts? They can only really break once the rest is just scratches.

The air seemed poisoned with fear and hatred. People eyed on another suspiciously, and the streets smelled of a silence that knotted your stomach.

I became a writer, a teller of tales, because otherwise I would have died... or worse.

He would have liked to know that somebody wanted to keep him alive, that someone remembered him. He used to say that we exist as long as somebody remembers us.