the touch of evil poisons by the idea of it. Reject the idea, and you've rejected the evil

I found that the only way I could control this sorrow was not to think of [it] at all, which was almost as painful as the loss itself.

I long for another human face just as I fear it.

He didn't look insane or inhuman. He did look uncooperative.

She fell asleep, leaning on his chest, and he edged her a little off a particularly painful bruise, leaned his head back against the tree he had propped them up against, and closed his own eyes.

Perhaps it is a human thing, to look upon such beauty and fail to encompass it.

One of the biggest, and possibly the biggest, obstacle to becoming a writer... is learning to live with the fact that the wonderful story in your head is infinitely better, truer, more moving, more fascinating, more perceptive, than anything you're going to manage to get down on paper.