These are the folk who may pass into the kingdom of heaven: the grief-stricken, lovers, scholars of a certain obsessive disposition. Brute beasts. Women who have become as men and men who have become as women. Writers of books with long titles. Only those knights who have failed to touch the Grail. Industrious women. You, and I, and a boy named Oleg, and a girl with blue hair.

We all live inside the terrible engine of authority, and it grinds and shrieks and burns so that no one will say: lines on maps are silly.

Hearts set about finding other hearts the moment they are born, and between them, they weave nets so frightfully strong and tight that you end up bound forever in hopeless knots, even to the shadow of a beast you knew and loved long ago.

But her heart was so cold that she could hold ice in her mouth and it would never melt.

An equation is a prophecy that always comes true.

Every morning is a battle between the superego and the id, and I am a mere foot soldier with mud and a snooze button on her shield.

Just remember that the only question in a house is who is to rule. The rest is only dancing around that, trying not to look it in the eye.