For a moment he felt a wild hope: perhaps this really was a nightmare. Perhaps he would awake in his own bed, bathed in sweat, shaking, maybe even crying . . . but alive. Safe. Then he pushed the thought away. Its charm was deadly, its comfort fatal.

Fiction is the truth inside the lie.

You pay for what you get, you own what you pay for... and sooner or later whatever you own comes back home to you.

Memories are contrary things; if you quit chasing them and turn your back, they often return on their own.

Belief in the supernatural or belief in wild talents like precognition and telepathy and telekinesis and things like that, it seems to me that belief in those things is just very, very freeing.

People with a high tolerance for boredom can get a lot of thinking done.

Tell him he's wrong. Tell him that even if he's right about waiting, he's right for the wrong reasons, and that makes him all the way wrong.