Walter had never liked cats. They'd seemed to him the sociopaths of the pet world, a species domesticated as an evil necessary for the control of rodents and subsequently fetishized the way unhappy countries fetishize their militaries, saluting the uniforms of killers as cat owners stroke their animals' lovely fur and forgive their claws and fangs. He'd never seen anything in a cat's face but simpering incuriosity and self-interest; you only had to tease one with a mouse-toy to see where it's true heart lay...cats were all about using people

When I was younger, the main struggle was to be a 'good writer.' Now I more or less take my writing abilities for granted, although this doesn't mean I always write well.

The reader is a friend, not an adversary, not a spectator.

Being dead's only a problem if you know you're dead, which you never do because you're dead!

If you want to have friends, you have to remember that nobody's perfect.

Elective ignorance was a great survival skill, perhaps the greatest.

It was a way of recognizing places of enchantment: people falling asleep like this.