You are my beauty, my body, perfected. All I was drained off into you. When you left, my health went with you - leaving a moral morbidity I smell in my sleep. The acts I committed for the love of you. Acts I can never forget. I crawled into the bellies of the dead to fish out a little life... I have an appetite for it now. I have an unrelenting lust for death.

Your flesh is killing your spirit. You have forsaken yourself.

Books should make somebody look at how they feel, be honest with themselves.

It was as though in these last minutes together - when they had so much to say - they could say nothing of the least significance, for fear it open the floodgates.

We burn so hard, but we shed so little light; it makes us crazy and sad.

To dream in isolation can be properly splendid to be sure; but to dream in company seems to me infinitely preferable.

For a writer, and particularly a writer of my genre, which is the fantastical, I think that it's to my advantage to feel remote from and disconnected from the world of deal making.