The reason why truth is so much stranger than fiction is that there is no requirement for it to be consistent.

You are about as happy as you make up your mind to be.

I know the look of an apple that is roasting and sizzling on the hearth on a winter's evening, and I know the comfort that comes of eating it hot, along with some sugar and a drench of cream... I know how the nuts taken in conjunction with winter apples, cider, and doughnuts, make old people's tales and old jokes sound fresh and crisp and enchanting.

But who prays for Satan? Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?

I don't like to commit myself about heaven and hell - you see, I have friends in both places.

Martyrdom covers a multitude of sins.

When you catch an adjective, kill it - perhaps the best possible advice for budding writers.