We are not born to wait. We are born to do.

Home was not a perfect place. But it was the only home they had and they could hope to make it better.

Then what are you? An electronic Hannibal Lector? You can't eat my liver with fava beans through a modem, you know.

I have a sofa on which I never nap, big windows with an ocean view that I rarely see because I keep the pleated shades down at all times while working. I know I'm a potential slacker, so I don't tempt myself.

All these girls swooning over hunky vampires, what they really want is to give away their freedom, to be controlled and told what to do and not have to think -- and never die, of course. It's sick is what it is. I don't want to be a forever-young living corpse.

Humanity is a parade of fools, and I am at the front of it, twirling a baton.

How passionately we love everything that cannot last: the dazzling crystallory of winter, the spring in bloom, the fragile flight of butterflies, crimson sunsets, a kiss, and life.