And Robespierre, the Incorruptible, who loved us so much he cut off our heads so we would not be troubled by too many thoughts.

Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.

On those nights, the words were for me alone. They came up unbidden from my heart. They spilled over my tongue and spilled out my mouth. And because of them, I, who was nothing and nobody, was a prince of Denmark, a maid of Verona, a queen of Egypt. I was a sour misanthrope, a beetling hypocrite, a conjurer's daughter, a mad and murderous king.

The more obscure our tastes, the greater the proof of our genius.

Sometimes, when you catch someone unaware at just the right time and in just the right light, you can catch sight of what they will be.

Who needs make-believe monsters when there are so many real ones.

History is a Rorschach test, people. What you see when you look at it tells you as much about yourself as it does about the past.