Killing is like riding, you see. One never really loses the knack.
Death was the ultimate power and I his eager, willing apprentice.
In point of fact I was a perfectly devoted and dutiful little Catholic—until the day I learned that animals have no souls.
All beauty must have its imperfections, all happiness its share of sorrow.
Happiness is like the first blissful intoxication of morphine.It doesn't last very long.
Memories are like fireflies darting across the surface of my mind, showing me here and there images so sharp and vivid that I catch my breath in wonder before the vignette disappears, sinking like a pebble into the quicksand of regret and recrimination.