Only enemies speak the truth; friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web of duty.

Overhead was a sky blacker than jewlers' velvet, and a billion stars screamed down.

And suddenly it didn't seem to matter any more, nothing would matter if she could turn over, turn over and see the stars, turn over and look once and die.

I think part of being a parent is trying to kill your kids.

Outlines are the last resource of bad fiction writers who wish to God they were writing masters' theses.

As far as where I go when I die, the concept that I am simple going to flick out, like a light bulb, to me is not only spiritually impossible to believe, but logically it is laughable - the idea that we simply die and nothing happens.

I worry about you Bev. I worry a lot.