Fiction is like that, once it is released into the world: contagious, persistent. Like the contents of Pandora's box, a story that's freely given can't be contained anymore. It becomes infectious, spreading from the person who created it to the person who listens, and passes it on.

When I was little I bragged about my firefighting father: my father would go to heaven, because if he went to hell he would put out all the fires.

If you live in each other's pockets long enough, you're related.

Sometimes I think my whole life has been about holding on to you.

He knew that there was a difference between something that makes you happy and something that doesn’t make you unhappy. The trick was convincing yourself these were one and the same.

Every life has a soundtrack.

I found plain truth very interesting.