Let the jagged edge of sobriety be now dulled.

Because there was only one thing worse than dying. And that was knowing you were going to die. And where. And how. (“Death Ship”)

I think What Dreams May Come is the most important (read effective) book I've written. It has caused a number of readers to lose their fear of death the finest tribute any writer could receive. ... Somewhere In Time is my favorite novel.

What condemnation could possibly be more harsh than one’s own, when self-pretense is no longer possible?

All of us have a path to follow and the path begins on earth.

After a while, though, even the deepest sorrow faltered, even the most penetrating despair lost its scalpel edge.

He pretended it was the only thing that kept him from it. But, far back in his mind, he wondered if he could write anything. Often the question threw itself at him when he was least expecting it. You have four hours every morning, the statement would rise like a menacing wraith. You have time to write many thousands of words. Why don't you? And the answer was always lost in a tangle of becauses and wells and endless reasons that he clung to like a drowning man at straws.