He can't really love anyone, you know, and in the end such people are always alone, no matter how much other people once loved them.

I keep telling myself I should try very hard to write a novel of about 210 pages... I don't seem to be capable of it, but I keep hoping it will happen.

He brought his great hand to rest on an early edition of Bram Stoker's novel and smiled, but said nothing. Then he moved quietly away into another section.

As you know, human history is full of evil deeds, and maybe we ought to think of them with tears, not fascination.

I've read there is no such thing as a single tear, that old poetic trope. And perhaps there isn't, since hers was simply a companion to my own.

I've noticed Dracula was often as practical a fellow as he was a nasty one.

There is nothing harder, at moments, than talking to someone who has all the power of silence.