Recounting the strange is like telling one's dreams: one can communicate the events of a dream, but not the emotional content, the way that a dream can colour one's entire day.

I suspect that most authors don't really want criticism, not even constructive criticism. They want straight-out, unabashed, unashamed, fulsome, informed, naked praise, arriving by the shipload every fifteen minutes or so.

You are young, and in love. Every young man in your position is the most miserable young man who ever lived.

Chantal is having a relationship with a sentence. Just one of those things. A chance meeting that grew into something important for the both of them.

People are icebergs. So much of us is underneath.

I think I've got Fear down, but how do I take it all the way up to Terror?

Sometimes big things happen, and they echo. Those echoes crash across worlds. They are the ripples in the fabric of things. Often they manifest as storms. Reality is a fragile thing, after all.