I have avoided becoming stale by putting a little water on the plate, lying on the plate, and having myself refreshed in a toaster oven for 23 minutes once every month.

The snow did not even whisper its way to earth, but seemed to salt the night with silence.

Language can't describe reality. Literature has no stable reference, no real meaning. Each reader's interpretation is equally valid, more important than the author's intention. In fact, nothing in life has meaning. Reality is subjective. Values and truths are subjective. Life itself is a kind of illusion. Blah, blah, blah, let's have another scotch.

None of us can ever save himself; we are the instruments of one another’s salvation, and only by the hope that we give to others do we lift ourselves out of the darkness into light.

its a rare thing to know one completly to the core and stil love him

The world is a very complex and interesting place and that is what I really want my fiction to say: wake up to how amazing the world is.

Where there is cake, there is hope. And there is always cake.