In ten years time I’ll be… (dead) sixty.

I wanted to be an author as far back as I can remember, mixed with occasional bouts of wanting to be a werewolf when I grew up. But mostly, when I daydreamed, it was about being an author.

A book is a dream that you hold in your hands.

That is the eternal folly of man. To be chasing after the sweet flesh, without realizing that it is simply a pretty cover for the bones.

There are so many places we have not yet seen. So many people still to meet.

There's a tale in the Caballa that suggests that the Angel of Death is so beautiful that upon seeing it (or him, or her) you fall in love so hard, so fast, that your soul is pulled out through your eyes. I like that story.

We make choices. No one else can live our lives for us. And we must confront and accept the consequences of our actions.