I didn't feel that way about it. I had been playing with death for some time. I can't say we were the best of friends but we were well acquainted.

It's possible to love a human being if you don't know them too well.

I held her wrists and then I got it through the eyes: hatred, centuries deep and true. I was wrong and graceless and sick. all the things I had learned had been wasted. there was no creature living as foul as I and all my poems were false.

I am a series of small victories and large defeats.

Death is not the problem; waiting around for it is.

There's no way I can stop writing, it's a form of insanity.

you've got to burn straight up and down and then maybe sidewise for a while and have your guts scrambled by a bully and the demonic ladies, you've got to run along the edge of madness teetering, you've got to starve like a winter alleycat, you've go to live with the imbecility of at least a dozen cities, then maybe maybe maybe you might know where you are for a tiny blinking moment.