The world devours the world to make the world.
First-person narrators is the way I know how to write a book with the greatest power and chance of artistic success.
I do not read the ancient languages, but I am beginning to study Greek.
You whining coward of a vampire who prowls the night killing alley cats and rats and staring for hours at candles as if they were people and standing in the rain like a zombie until your clothes are drenched and you smell like old wardrobe trunks in attics and have the look of a baffled idiot at the zoo.
A silence fell between us. I loved her, you know, I said. I loved her. Yes, I do know, he said, and, you see, I did not. And so this doesn't matter to me very much. What matters much more is that I love you.
Why do we weep when we see something beautiful? Why are we weakened by beauty? Why does it break our hearts?