Whenever it poured like this, Max felt as if time was pausing. It was like a cease-fire during which you could stop whatever you were doing and just stand by a window for hours, watching the performance, an endless curtain of tears falling from heaven.

It's curious how easy it is to tell a piece of paper what you don't dare say to someone's face.

Memories are worse than bullets.

It seems that in the advanced stages of stupidity, a lack of ideas is compensated for by an excess of ideologies.

I decided that my existence would be one of books and silence.

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

I'm interested in everything. I don't see why Borges can't work along with Neil Gaiman, or Stephen King can't be mixed with Balzac. It's just storytelling; it's different ways of using codes and images and words and sounds.