The only constant in the soul of man is inconstancy; anything and everything else can pass out of fashion-even something as utilitarian as a hill stuffed full of corpses.

In the glass burrow beneath their feet, the flames began to rise. First the flames, and then the screams

Stand aside, and try not to catch fire if I shed sparks of genius.

Yeah, but if I don't start my nervous pacing now, I'll never have it all done in time.

I think it’s fairly common for writers to be afflicted with two simultaneous yet contradictory delusions, the burning certainty that we’re unique geniuses, and the constant fear that we’re witless frauds who are speeding toward epic failure.

What kind of knife is this?” Locke held a rounded buttering utensil up for Chains’ inspection. “It’s all wrong. You couldn’t kill anyone with this.

What is government but theft by consent?