One of the greatest gifts we receive f.. Dean Koontz

One of the greatest gifts we receive from dogs is the tenderness they evoke in us.

Dean Koontz

Profession: Author
Nationality: American

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Hell of a thing to have to experience, hell of a thing to have to see, to be reminded you're a human being and all it meant to be one.

Nothing is worse than being alone on the evening of the day when one's cow has exploded.

Every home ceased to be a home sooner or later, but not with its demolition. It survived destruction as long as just one person who had loved it still lived. Home was the story of what happened there, not the story of where it happened.

In certain fiction, she perceives truths that she rarely finds in nonfiction; therefore, in her quest to better understand the world and the meaning of her life, she reads those novels that suggest a world of wonders, dark and light, forever unfolding for eyes willing to see.

If someone had killed Hamlet in the first act, a lot more people would've been alive at the end.

The normality of the house terrified her: the gleaming surfaces, the tidiness, the homey touches, the sense that a person lived here who might walk in daylight on any street and pass for human in spite of the atrocities that he had committed.

Humanity is capable of any atrocity, she said. But when you understand the extent of this cruelty, the unprecedented viciousness, the immense scale of the horror, it seems beyond the power of mere people to conceive and execute. It seems demonic.

He'll also cut you some slack if you're astonishingly stupid in an amusing fashion. Granny claimed that this explains why uncountable millions of breathtakingly stupid people get along just fine in life.

There is no fate, only free will, and we were just in the way of other people's free will when they decided to do the Devil's work.

But on my worst days, which are rare and of which this is one, I can get down so low that the bottom seems to be where I belong. I don't even want to look for a way up. I suppose surrender to sadness is a sin, though my current sadness is not a black depression but is instead a sorrow like a long moody twilight.

He had taught me how to be a man when my real father proved not to be much of one himself and incapable of showing a son the way.

Her direct stare probed, as if the story of my life were written in my eyes in a few succinct lines that she could read.

But I keep the kid in my heart, you know, and once in a while she gets out. It's a writer thing. The past is material. You never want to forget it, how it was, how it felt.

Bleachy ozone tingled in my sinuses, but I trusted providence to prevent a sneeze, refused to worry, declined to dwell on negative possibilities, and I did not sneeze, did not sneeze, still did not sneeze, but then I farted.

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