You kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire. He had wondered once why love was always phrased in terms of burning. The conflagration in his own veins, now, gave the answer.

For me my big dream that I would like to achieve is for each book to be better than the books that came before, to continue to improve and to become better as a writer and hopefully to have a long career.

Don't screech like that. You'll wake the dead.

Books will always be there for you.

[...] He tasted like snowflakes and wine, like winter and Will and London.

The young man who appeared at the mouth of the alley was pale in the lamplight—paler even than he usually was, which was quite pale indeed.

The light that burned twice as bright burned half as long.