I don't think I began to be a professional writer until I learned my weaknesses and what I couldn't do. This forced me to compensate.

Cities fell. Earth opened. Planets tilted. Stars plummeted. And the awful silence.

He was swept with a sadness, a sadness deep and penetrating, leaving him desolate like someone washed up on a beach, a lone survivor in a world full of strangers.

It came to me that hell would not be fire and smoke after all but arctic, everything white and frigid. Hell would be not anger but indifference.

I'm weary of the battle. But a tired fighter can still be a fighter.

We often think that tragedies happen because of great earthquakes in people's lives. I think they sometimes occur because of small things that become obsessive to a particular person.

They don't actually want you to do your own thing, not unless it's their thing too.