No artist knows everything... but since every artist knows more than he can tell, all art is lying by omission.

We go to the past to lay the blame - since the past can't argue. We go to our past selves to account for our present miseries.

Words betrayed her: beautiful butterflies in her mind; dead moths when she opened her mouth for their release into the world.

Yes, Eden was beautiful- and if I had to squeeze through corporeal keyholes to crash it- so be it. (Hasn’t it bothered you, this part of the story, my being there, I mean? What was I doing there? ‘Presume not the ways of God to scan,’ you’ve been told in umpteen variations, ‘the proper study of Mankind is Man.’ Maybe so, but what, excuse me, was the Devil doing in Eden?) I took the forms of animals. I found I could. (That’s generally my reason for doing something, by the way, because I find I can.)

You love life because life's all there is.

When you're a kid it's people's cruelty that makes you cry, then when you're an adult it's their kindness.

No artist knows everything... but since every artist knows more than he can tell, all art is lying by omission.