The marks humans leave are too often scars.

What is the point of being alive if you don't at least try to do something remarkable?

When did we see each other face-to-face? Not until you saw into my cracks and I saw into yours. Before that, we were just looking at ideas of each other, like looking at your window shade but never seeing inside. But once the vessel cracks, the light can get in. The light can get out.

The snow may be falling in the winter of my discontent, but at least I've got sarcastic company.

God will punish the wicked. And before He does, we will.

We have bottled all the stars this evening, my young friend.

But to be perfectly frank, this childish idea that the author of a novel has some special insight into the characters in the novel ... it's ridiculous. That novel was composed of scratches on a page, dear. The characters inhabiting it have no life outside of those scratches. What happened to them? They all ceased to exist the moment the novel ended.