A dimwit thinks nothing is funny unless it's mean.

I've killed enough of the world's trees.

Do any of us, except in our dreams, truly expect to be reunited with our hearts' deepest loves, even when they leave us only for minutes, and on the most mundane of errands? No, not at all. Each time they go from our sight we in our secret hearts count them as dead. Having been given so much, we reason, how could we expect not to be brought as low as Lucifer for the staggering presumption of our love?

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

Our time here is brief, our risk enormous. Don't waste the one or increase the other, if you please.

Writing's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy.

I want to engage the reader. I'm an emotional writer, in the sense that I would be happy if you re-read a book for the intellectual or the mental part of it, but, the first time, I just like to reach out and grab you, pull you in.