“There were hints of sunrise on the rim of the sky, yet it was still dark, and the traces of morning color were like goldfish swimming in ink.”

Life is a moderately good play with a badly written third act.

The enemy was anyone who was someone he wanted to be or who had anything he wanted to have.

Good luck and believe me, dearest Doc – it’s better to look at the sky than live there. Such an empty place; so vague. Just a country where the thunder goes and things disappear.

The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries: weight and sink it deep, no matter, it will rise and find the surface.

I thought of the future, and spoke of the past.

We all, sometimes, leave each other there under the skies, and we never understand why.

Finishing a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it.

The most dangerous thing in the world is to make a friend of an Englishman, because he’ll come sleep in your closet rather than spend 10 shillings on a hotel.

A man who doesn’t dream is like a man who doesn’t sweat. He stores up a lot of poison.

I don’t care what anybody says about me as long as it isn’t true.

If there is no mystery, for the artist, to solve inside of his art, then there’s no point in it….for me, every act of the art of solving a mystery.

There is only one unpardonable sin–deliberate cruelty. All else can be forgiven.

Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.

A conversation is a dialogue, not a monologue. That’s why there are so few good conversations: due to scarcity, two intelligent talkers seldom meet.

Sometimes when I think how good my book can be, I can hardly breathe.

Everybody has to feel superior to somebody,” she said. “But it’s customary to present a little proof before you take the privilege.

A lot of women don’t know how to love because there’s deep reasons for them not knowing how to love. And what I mean by deep reasons is deep and dark reasons.

Love is love, even if it is illicit; like light remains light even in the darkness.

I remember the stillness of the night when I met darkness for the first time.  Whispering gently in my ear “It’s time to come home”

How abstract we humans sound, when we say these are dark times. As though it isn’t in our hands that paint our times.

The darkness feels like home. And the truth is, I’m tired.  I can’t pretend like there’s light anymore.

Never will He hold your hand more tightly than when He is leading you through the dark.

Even in darkness, your light burns with the cosmic energy of a thousand falling stars.

Consumed by darkness but drenched in warm morning sun. Life’s oxymoron.