Sooner or later a black car came for everyone.

Pick a sin we can both live with, is what I ask.

She'd thought love had something to do with happiness, but it turned out they were not even vaguely related. Love was closer to a need, no different from the need to eat, to breathe.

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.

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

Terror is the desire to save your own ass, but horror is rooted in sympathy.

Maybe all the schemes of the devil were nothing compared to what man could think up.