People die of broken hearts. They have heart attacks. And it's the heart that hurts most when things go wrong and fall apart.

There are two magic acts I want to pull off when I write. One is creating a feeling that when you're inside a book, you believe everything you're reading even when you know it's not true. And the second is an extension of that, which is you know it's not true, you know it's not real, but you believe it anyway. And it's that believing of the story that isn't real that attracted me to writing and storytelling in general.

She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half. Then a chapter. Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words littered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this. Without words, the Führer was nothing. There would be no limping prisoners, no need for consolation or wordly tricks to make us feel better. What good were the words? She said it audibly now, to the orange-lit room. "What good are the words?

I am hunted by humans.

...there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.

There were people everywhere on the city street, but the stranger could not have been more alone if it were empty.

I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.