Writing is not lying, nor is it theft. It is a journey and search for transparency between one’s words and one’s soul.

Is it easier for a man to live his life again as a fish, than to accept the wonder of being human? So alone, so frightened, so wanting for what we are afraid to give tongue to.

The fallacy is that you have to hold some sort of stake in the grief or horror in order to write about it - I think the opposite is true.

Love is the scent of a sleeping back, death a slight draft of bad breath.

Love is a glimpse of hope. To love is to hope. When we abandon hope, we cease to exist.

I'm afraid a lot of people have lost a lot of money over the years betting on me.

What reality was ever made by realists?