She laughed so easily when she was happy. But also when she was sad.

We recived our colouring from the Norsemen,hairy savages who hacked their gods to pieces and hung the flesh from trees.We are the ones who sacked Rome.Fear only feeble old age and death in bed.Don't forget who you are.

at least if you were ignorant you could do wat you wanted. you had no idea wat had been acheived in the past. you were free instead of chewed at by bleeding impotence, dissolved away like a pearl in acid

Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.

As a person with terrible handwriting, I love the computer. I've waited all my life for the computer.

The sound of her laughter was sticky as sap, the smell of night-blooming jasmine soft as a milk bath.

A cliché is like a coin that has been handled too much. Once language has been overly handled, it no longer leaves a clear imprint.