He understood that the ghost existed first and foremost within his own head. That maybe ghosts always haunted minds, not places. If he wanted to take a shot at it, he’d have to turn the barrel against his own temple.

Already, though, she understood the difference between being a child and being an adult. The difference is when someone says he can keep the bad things away, a child believes him.

She just knew that even when you had nothing, you still had love.

I remind myself that no one day of writing matters all that much. A story is built somewhat like a stalactite - one little drip of mud and grit at a time.

It bewildered Ig, the idea that a person could not be interested in music. It was like not being interested in happiness.

Horror was rooted in sympathy . . . in understanding what it would be like to suffer the worst.

I mean, when the world comes for your children, with the knives out, it's your job to stand in the way.