I like that every page in every book can have a gem on it. It's probably what I love most about writing--that words can be used in a way that's like a child playing in a sandpit, rearranging things, swapping them around. They're the best moments in a day of writing -- when an image appears that you didn't know would be there when you started work in the morning.

A human doesn't have a heart like mine. The human heart is a line, whereas my own is a circle, and I have the endless ability to be in the right place at the right time. The consequence of this is that I'm always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty, and I wonder how the same thing can be both. Still, they have one thing I envy. Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.

It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.

Handfuls of frosty water can make almost anyone smile, but it cannot make them forget.

He prefers not to ruin things with any more questions. What it is is what it is.

But then, is there cowardice in the acknowledgment of fear? Is there cowardice in being glad that you lived?

It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.