Each book is a mind alive, a life revealed, a world awaiting exploration, but living people are all those things, as well—and more, because their stories haven’t yet been completely told.

These days, people spent too much time striving to understand their feelings - and then ended up with none that were genuine.

Atlas isn't carrying the world on his shoulders, no giant muscular hulk with a sense of responsibility; the world is balanced on a pyramid of clowns, and they are always tooting horns and wobbling and goosing each other.

I think the world is an interesting place and I don't think anybody has the firm and final answer to what it is but I kind of assume there's a purpose.

Lies hurt people; imagination makes life more fun.

Although I've said a million times that I'm not a horror writer, I do like horror.

When tempest tossed, embrace chaos