Not that we were incompatible: we just had nothing to talk about.

I used to run a full marathon in three hours and 25 or 26 minutes. Not any more.

The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts.

Whoa!" he says with a smile. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen. "Chicken salad a la George Orwell!

Loving another person is a wonderful thing, and if that love is sincere, no one ends up tossed into a labyrinth. You have to have more faith in yourself.

I dream. Sometimes I think that's the only right thing to do.

When a writer develops a story, he is confronted with a poison that is inside him. If you don't have that poison, your story will be boring and uninspired. It's like fugu: The flesh of the pufferfish is extremely tasty, but the roe, the liver, the heart can be lethally toxic.