Teens are not like the weird, dumb dwarves you have around your house. They are actually you when you were younger.

People talk about the beauty of the spring, but I can't see it. The trees are brown and bare, slimy with rain. Some are crawling with new purple hairs. And the buds are bulging like tumorous acne, and I can tell that something wet, and soft, and cold, and misshapen is about to be born. And I am turning into a vampire.

Why not write a book which is as sophisticated as a book for an adult, but is about the concerns that teenagers actually have?

Its a very 18th-century thing to have a book broken into several volumes.

I can't tell you how irritating it is to be an atheist in a haunted house.

At long last, you may no longer distinguish what binds you from what is you.

I miss that time. The cities back then, just after the forests died, were full of wonders, and you'd stumble on them--these princes of the air on common rooftops--the rivers that burst through the city streets so they ran like canals--the rabbits in parking garages--the deer foaling, nestled in Dumpsters like a Nativity.