In the big factory of perfecting human souls, the Earth was kind of tumbler. The sale as the kind people use to polish rocks. All souls come here to rub the sharp edges off each other. This isn't suffering. It's erosion.

What we call chaos is just patterns we haven’t recognized. What we call random is just patterns we can't decipher.

Sticks and stones may break your bones but words can hurt like hell.

Most guys will fight to know you. Some guys will deny you're a real person, and some will just ignore you." The zealot. The atheist. The agnostic.

I still love him so much I'll hide any amount of conjugated estrogen in his food. So much I'll do anything to destroy him.

Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism.

There are people out there who will not read books, but somehow they'll read my books.