I wouldn't mind leaving myself behind if I could, but I don't know the way out.

They'd never been lovers, of course, not in the physical sense. But they'd been lovers as most of us manage, loving through expressions and gestures and the palm set softly upon the bruise at the necessary moment. Lovers by inclination rather than by lust. Lovers, that is, by love.

And it's a cold place the world, especially when warmed by arsen.

Does the devil ever struggle to be good again, or if so is he not a devil?

As long as people are going to call you lunatic anyway, why not get the benefit of it? It liberates you from convention.

That's the real power of art, I think. Not to chide but to provoke challenge. Otherwise why bother?

I'm not a writer because I want to make money. I'm a writer because I'm a very slow thinker, but I do care about thinking, and the only way I know how to think with any kind of finesse is by telling stories.