The mind can calculate, but the spirit yearns, and the heart knows what the heart knows

Understand death? Sure. That was when the monsters got you.

As a species we're fundamentally insane.

She can't help it,' he said. 'She's got the soul of a poet and the emotional makeup of a junkyard dog.

I've spoken out my whole life against the idea of simply dismissing whole areas of fiction by saying it's "genre" and therefore can't be seen as literature.

I have an idea of how the book will finish up, but it very rarely finishes up the way that I think it's going to.

One night when my longing for her was like a fire burning out of control in my heart and my head, I wrote her a letter that just seemed to go on and on. I poured out my whole heart in it, never looking back to see what I'd said because I was afraid cowardice would make me stop. I didn't stop, and when a voice in my head clamored that it would be madness to mail such a letter, that I would be giving her my naked heart to hold in her hand, I ignored it with a child's breathless disregard of the consequences.