I was struck by an awful thought, the kind that cannot be taken back once it escapes into the open air of consciousness; it seemed to me that this was not a place you go to live. It was a place you go to die.

Beware of that monster called 'self-loathing'.

What do you mean by meant? Given the final futility of our struggle, is the fleeting jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable? Or is it the only value passing time as comfortably as possible?

You shall love your neighbour With your crooked heart, It says so much about love and brokenness -- it's perfect.

Becoming a father made me much more interested in the parent character in my novels. I've never found parents that interesting.

We all romanticize the people we adore.

Books are like tweets, except longer.