I just think that fiction that isn't exploring what it means to be human today isn't art.

Boo, I think I no longer believe in monsters as faces in the floor or feral infants or vampires or whatever. I think at seventeen now I believe the only real monsters might be the type of liar where there's simply no way to tell. The ones who give nothing away.

It is tragic and sad and chaotic and lovely. All life is the same, as citizens of the human State: the animating limits are within, to be killed and mourned, over and over again.

I felt the sort of soaring, ceilingless tedium that transcends tedium and becomes worry.

I'd tell you all you want and more, if the sounds I made could be what you hear

No one can call themselves a writer until he or she has written at least fifty stories.

The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day.