The poets continually and sometimes wilfully mistake love. Love is the old slaughterer.

The shining. It was a good name, a comforting name, because she had always thought of it as a dark thing.

When creative people do their best work, they're hardly ever in charge, they're just sort of rolling along with their eyes shut yelling wheee.

When you're five and you hurt, you make a big noise in the world. At ten you whimper. But by the time you make fifteen you begin to eat the poisoned apples that grow on your own inner tree of pain.

Only library books speak with such wordless eloquence of the power good stories hold over us.

He smiles a lot. But I think there might be worms inside him making him smile.

Lover," she whispers, and closes her eyes. It falls upon her. Love is like dying.