All those moments, those memories. Everything that we are, compressed in just two or three kilos of paper — the weight of a human heart.

Somehow the anticipation of pain can be even more troubling, more a misery than the pain itself.

I'd rather be a freak than a clone.

It isn't just a village. The houses aren't just places to live. Everything belongs to everybody. Everyone belongs to everyone else. Even a single person can make a difference.

I don't think I've ever had a mentor. The closest thing is my friend Christopher Fowler, another writer. Chris kept me sane for a long time before I made it.

She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.

Life is what you celebrate. All of it. Even its end.