Together in our house, in the firelight, we are the world made small.

Happiness was useless to me. It was heartache that filled my purse. What happy man has need of Shakespeare?

Beautiful people don't need coats. They've got their auras to keep them warm.

Never take what's offered, always ask for more.

Why do you write?' Because I love words and stories so much. Because I would be grief stricken every day of my life if I couldn't write. Because I'm obsessed and compelled. Because I'd be utterly useless at anything else.

It is hope, not despair, that undoes us all.

Cry your grief to God. Howl to the heavens. Tear your shirt. Your hair. Your flesh. Gouge out your eyes. Carve out your heart. And what will you get from Him? Only silence. Indifference. But merely stand looking at the playbills, sighing because your name is not on them, and the devil himself appears at your elbow full of sympathy and suggestions. And that's why I did it....Because God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.