A small town is nothing but eyes and gaping maw; it pecks at its own like a flock of vicious birds.

There's fire in my fingers. I burn everything I touch.

I want my life to be mystifying," she declared, although she didn't know what she meant.

I thought about how stupid it is, that all of us are born destined to desire somebody else, though desire brings with it such disappointment and pain. Humankind's history must be scored bloody with heartbreak. This hankering for affection is a blight upon us.

How does one craft happiness out of something as important, as complicated, as unrepeatable and as easily damaged as life?

More than this, I believe that the only lastingly important form of writing is writing for children. It is writing that is carried in the reader's heart for a lifetime; it is writing that speaks to the future.

Strange how love coexists with hate, how they render eachother mute, how the swilling of them together makes a new and softer, sympathetic thing.