Hunchbacks danced at my wedding for luck. It's a thing you don't see nowadays.

One word after another. That's the only way that novels get written and, short of elves coming in the night and turning your jumbled notes into Chapter Nine, it's the only way to do it. So keep on keeping on. Write another word and then another.

That which is dreamed can never be lost, can never be undreamed.

You mourn, for it is proper to mourn. But your grief serves you; you do not become a slave to grief. You bid the dead farewell, and you continue.

He had gone beyond the world of metaphor and simile into the place of things that are, and it was changing him.

There are so many fragile things, after all. People break so easily, and so do dreams and hearts.

Is the chemical aftertaste the reason why people eat hot dogs, or is it some kind of bonus?