I hear what many of you are saying: We don’t have the time, we are busy. Well Nobody Has Time, Everyone Is Busy. In the time it took you to read this post, your life just got a minute shorter. That is precisely why we read (and why some of us write): because life is short and finite, we want more, and literature is the distillation of all those lives we will not lead.

We often reward mediocrity because it is comforting. If they can do it, anyone can do it.

Beware of those who have never been bored, depressed, or angry. There is something seriously wrong with them.

My Macbook is my new boyfriend, except that he's dependable and meets all my demands.

If you are honest with yourself, your life will be so much more pleasant.

Sometimes I wonder if, instead of falling madly in love, we should aspire to fall sanely in love. But then, what would be the point?

Why should I bring happiness to those I loathe by obliterating myself, when I can make them miserable just by existing?