One of them hissed-not the hiss of a cat, a long, steady tone-more like the hiss of air escaping the rubber raft that is all that lies between you and a dark sea full of sharks, the hiss of your life leaking out at the seams.

Only by being prepared for your death can you ever truly live.

She doesn't understand that a writer is a special creature--that I'm different from everyone else. I'm not saying I'm superior to other people, just more sensitive, I guess.

Faith isn't an act of intelligence, it's an act of imagination.

Hope is bulletproof, truth just hard to hit

I love you above all things, even pie.

Blessed are the dumbfucks.