Sometimes, like in 'Invisible Monsters,' I get too out of control, and instead of a plot point every chapter, I want a plot point in every sentence.
More and more, the hardest part of crying is when I can't stop.
By bitching and bitching and bitching, they could exhaust the drama of their own horror stories. Grow bored. Only then could they accept a new story for their lives. Move forward.
In the outside world, my brother told me, people were as reckless as animals and fornicated with strangers on the street.
I know that I'm going to die and that you're going to die. I can't do anything about that. But I can explore it through a metaphor and make a kind of funny, dark story about it, and in doing so, really exhaust and research as many aspects of it as I can imagine. And in a way, that does give me some closure.
All human beings search for either reasons to be good, or excuses to be bad.
In the big factory of perfecting human souls, the Earth was kind of tumbler. The sale as the kind people use to polish rocks. All souls come here to rub the sharp edges off each other. This isn't suffering. It's erosion.
My goal is more to be remembered. They'll remember this thing and like it in the future. The trick is to stay remembered long enough for that to happen.
If you knew that your life was merely a phase or short, short segment of your entire existence, how would you live? Knowing nothing 'real' was at risk, what would you do? You'd live a gigantic, bold, fun, dazzling life. You know you would. That's what the ghosts want us to do - all the exciting things they no longer can.
If a tree falls in the forest and nobody is there to hear it, doesn't it just lie there and rot?
If you ask me, reincarnation is just another way to procrastinate.
A house full of condiments and no real food. If you don't know what you want, you end up with a lot you don't.
You get everybody telling the same lie and it ain't a lie, not no more.
I tell everybody, I'm tired of being jerked around. Okay? So let's just not pretend. I don't have fuck for a heart. You people are not going to make me feel anything. You are not going to get to me.
Buster was Rant was Buddy. Chester was Chet was Dad. Irene was Mom was Reen. How folks lay claim to their loved ones is they give you a name of their own. They figure to label you as their property.
All object printed: Love me. Look me. Million speaking objects,begging. Crown American consumer with power of king, to rescue choose and give home or abandon here for expire.
From famous artists to building contractors, we all want to leave our signature. Our lasting effect. Your life after death. We all want to explain ourselves. Nobody wants to be forgotten.
I've always been very curious about fringe cultures where people temporarily adopt a different social model or way of presenting themselves.
What's burning down is a re-creation of a period revival house patterned after a copy of a copy of a copy of a mock Tudor big manor house. It's a hundred generations removed from anything original, but the truth is aren't we all?
Then since the autopilot will have it trimmed out to fly in a straight line, the glider will begin what the pilot calls a controlled descent. That kind of a descent, I tell him, would be nice for a change.
Honey, times like this, it helps to think of yourself as a sofa or a newspaper, something made by a lot of other people but not made to last forever.
The first time you meet that someone special, you can count on them one day being dead and in the ground.
There will always be cougars outside. It's such a chick thing to think life should go on forever.
Are you there, Satan? It's me, Madison. My taste for power continues to grow, as does my ability to accrue it.
I don't answer. I count in my head: five syllables, seven, five. A tiger can smile A snake will say it loves you Lies make us evil.
You turn up your music to hide the noise. Other people turn up their music to hide yours. You turn up yours again. Everyone buy s a bigger stereo system. This is the arms race of sound. You don't win with a lot of treble.
It is a hundred-year-old witch book, bound in human skin and probably written in ancient cum...YOU lick it!
I want my characters to really overuse their coping mechanisms to the point where they break down within 300 pages.
Fuck off with your sofa units and strine green stripe patterns, I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let... lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may.
Some of the best ideas I get seem to happen when I'm doing mindless manual labor or exercise. I'm not sure how that happens, but it leaves me free for remarkable ideas to occur.
Maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves.
In Hell you'd be foolish to count on people displaying high standards of honesty. The same goes for earth.
That old saying, about how you always kill the thing you love, well, it works both ways. And it does work both ways.
The problem is, if you never weep in public... well, the public assumes you never weep.
Away from the receiver, he says, Leslie, wake up, we're being hate-crimed finally.
I told him to buy land, my mum says, they're not making it anymore.
The best fights don't occur between strangers. They occur between friends who trust each other.
Adam said the other blessing you have to give up in the outside world is darkness.
So the last night the girl and her lover would be together, the girl would bring the lamp and set it so it threw the lover's shadow to the wall!!!!!
A happy past cripples people. They cling to it with nowhere better to go. Nothing to improve upon.