July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.

If you can't imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.

The sky is blue today, Max, and there is a big long cloud, and it's stretched out, like a rope. At the end of it, the sun is like a yellow hole. . .

The beauty of my work is that my sets cost nothing. That's what I love about being a writer of novels.

For a moment, I panic. It's that feeling of falling when you know without question, that you've lost control of your car, or made a mistake that's beyond repair. 'What do I do now?' I ask desperately. 'Tell me! What do I do now?' He remains calm. He looks at me closely and says, 'Keep living, Ed... It's only the pages that stop here.

The best word shakers were the ones who understood the true power of words. They were the ones who could climb the highest.

She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.