I have a really high tolerance level for twits. I really do.

Truly life is wasted on the living.

You know you can set fire to the capacity to say.

I only have two kinds of dreams: the bad and the terrible. Bad dreams I can cope with. They're just nightmares, and the end eventually. I wake up. The terrible dreams are the good dreams. In my terrible dreams, everything is fine. I am still with the company. I still look like me. None of the last five years ever happened. Sometimes I'm married. Once I even had kids. I even knew their names. Everything's wonderful and normal and fine. And then I wake up, and I'm still me. And I'm still here. And that is truly terrible.

The problems with success, frankly, are infinitely preferable to the problems of failure.

Bod was thrilled. He imagined a future in which he could read everything, in which all stories could be opened and discovered.

He was painfully shy, which, as is often the manner of the painfully shy, he overcompensated for by being too loud at the wrong times.