I never saw any of my dad's stories. My mother said he had piles and piles of manuscripts.

I've given up thinking - it keeps getting me into trouble.

He lay back, put his arm over his eyes, and tried to hold onto the anger, because the anger made him feel brave. A brave man could think. A coward couldn't.

Be true, be brave, stand All the rest is darkness.

I know life is hard, I think everyone knows that in their hearts, but why dos it have to be cruel, as well? Why does it have to bite?

What we like to think of ourselves and what we really are rarely have much in common.

When it comes to the past, everyone writes fiction.