She liked things that had been written by people who had lived short, ugly, and tragic lives. Or, who at least, were English.

Longhaired preachers come out every night, Tryin' to tell us what's wrong and what's right. But when asked about something to eat, They will tell you in voices so sweet. You will eat (You will eat!) By and by, (By and by!) In that glorious land in the sky. (Way up high!) Work and pray, live on hay, You'll get pie in the sky when you die. (That's a lie!)

I will die like a true-blue rebel. Don't waste any time in mourning - organize.

Music [is] the third rail of life. You grabbed it to shock yourself out of the dull drag of hours. To feel something. To burn with all the emotions you didn't get to experience in the ordinary run of school, TV, and loading the dishwasher after dinner.

I will be waiting by candlelight in our tree house of the mind.

I didn't know the inner me was hungry," I said to Art. "That's because it already starved to death.

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