I try hard and aim big. People can hate or love my books but they can never accuse me of not trying.

Imagine smiling after a slap in the face. Then think of doing it twenty-four hours a day.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

When we move apart, she looks at me again, till a small tear lifts itself up in her eye. It trips out to find a wrinkle and follows it down.

Somewhere, far down, there was an itch in his heart, but he made it a point not to scratch it. He was afraid of what might come leaking out.

Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.

for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.