When I was young I was a fool. So wrap me up in dreams and death.

I'm never, I hope, stupid enough to believe that Twitter or blogging or any of this stuff is a substitute for actually doing the work or writing a book.

Chicago happened slowly, like a migraine.

I'm a stranger," pointed out Bod. "You're not," she said, definitely. "You're a little boy." And then she said, "And you're my friend. So you can't be a stranger.

I was not so old that I would deny my own senses.

I know not whether you came to me or I to you. Not whether it was a dream, asleep or awake. I am lost in the darkness of a downcast heart. Dream or reality. Let it be decided tonight.

I hope you'll make mistakes. If you're making mistakes, it means you're out there doing something.