I start to feel like I can't maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong. Maybe something about how stupid my whole life is.

In my case, I was not frightened in the least bit at the thought that I might live because I was certain, quite certain, that I was already dead.

Why does the rest of the world put up with the hypocrisy, the need to put a happy face on sorrow, the need to keep on keeping on?... I don't know the answer, I know only that I can't.

...occasionally I wished I could walk through a picture window and have the sharp, broken shards slash me to ribbons so I would finally look like I felt.

After they had explored all the suns in the universe, and all the planets of all the suns, they realized there was no other life in the universe, and that they were alone. And they were very happy, because then they knew it was up to them to become all the things they had imagined they would find.

I'd really like to write a book about Timothy McVeigh, but it would only work if he cooperated.

My imagination, my ability to understand the way love and people grow over time, how passion can surprise and renew, utterly failed me.