We don’t even ask happiness, just a little less pain.

The blankets had fallen off and I stared down at her white back, the shoulder blades sticking out as if they wanted to grow into wings, poke through that skin. Little blades. She was helpless.

writers are desperate people and when they stop being desperate they stop being writers.

and love is a word used too much and much too soon.

For each Joan of Arc there is a Hitler perched at the other end of the teeter-totter.

there is enough treachery , hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day

If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.