I wanted to be an author as far back as I can remember, mixed with occasional bouts of wanting to be a werewolf when I grew up. But mostly, when I daydreamed, it was about being an author.

Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.

It’s part of growing up, I suppose…you always have to leave something behind you.

While clothes do not, as the saying would sometimes have it, make the man, and fine feathers do not make fine birds, sometimes they can add a certain spice to a recipe.

You wouldn't die in here, nothing ever dies in here, but if you stayed here for too long, after a while just a little of you would exist everywhere, all spread out. And that's not a good thing. Never enough of you all together in one place, so t here wouldn't be anything left that would think of itself as an 'I.' No point of view any longer, because you'd be an infinite sequence of views and of points.

I fell for her like a suicide from a bridge.

She was the storm, she was the lightning, she was the adult world with all its power and all its secrets and all its foolish casual cruelty.