She had the feeling that the door was looking at her, which she knew was silly, and knew on a deeper level was somehow true.

She decides to make a list of the things that make her happy. She writes 'plum-blossom' at the top of a piece of paper. Then she stares at the paper, unable to think of anything else. Eventually it begins to get dark.

Why are we talking about this good and evil? They're just names for sides. We know that.

Notoriety wasn't as good as fame, but was heaps better than obscurity.

I'm somebody who considers happiness a journey, not a destination.

Songs remain. They last...A song can last long after the events and the people in it are dust and dreams and gone. That's the power of songs.

People talk about books that write themselves, and it's a lie. Books don't write themselves. It takes thought and research and backache and notes and more time and more work than you'd believe.