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

Name the different kinds of people,’ said Miss Lupescu. ‘Now.’ Bod thought for a moment. ‘The living,’ he said. ‘Er. The dead.’ He stopped. Then, ‘... Cats?’ he offered, uncertainly.

Start telling the stories that only you can tell.

He had had a severe shock some weeks earlier, when, having narrowly failed to capture a large grey-brown hare for his dinner, it had stopped at the edge of the forest, looked at him with disdain, and said, 'Well, I hope you're proud of yourself, that's all,' and had scampered off into the long grass

Everybody going to be dead one day, just give them time.

If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you'll never be a novelist.

Potentially evil. Potentially good, too, I suppose. Just this huge powerful potentiality waiting to be shaped.