There is one sure thing about the fall of gods: they do not fall a little; they crash and shatter.

It's one of the great fallacies, it seems to me, that time gives much of anything but years and sadness to man.

At about 10 o'clock in the morning the sun threw a bright dust-laden bar through one of the side windows and in and out of the beam flies shot like rushing stars.

To a monster the norm must seem monstrous, since everyone is normal to himself.

There's something desirable about anything you're used to as opposed to something you're not.

If there is a magic in story writing, and I am convinced that there is, no one has ever been able to reduce it to a recipe that can be passed from one person to another. The formula seems to lie solely in the aching urge of the writer to convey something he feels important to the reader. If the writer has that urge, he may sometimes but by no means always find the way to do it.

You are not a man anymore. You are a soldier. Your comfort is of no importance and your life isn't of much importance. Most of your orders will be unpleasant, but that's not your business. They should've trained you for this, and not for flower-strewn streets. They should have built your soul with truth, not led along with lies.