“Memories consume, like opening the wound, I’m picking me apart again. You all assume, I’m safe here in my room, unless I try to start again.”

The very worst part of you is me.

There was a really strong and intense bond with a lot of those early fans, some of whom became what we call lifers.

But trying to be genuine was harder than it seemed.

Against my will I stand beside my own reflection.

What’s the worst thing I’ve stolen? Probably little pieces of other people’s lives. Where I’ve either wasted their time or hurt them in some way.

All I want to do, is be more like me, and less like you.

I don’t like to hold back, because that’s how you hurt yourself.

Never forget the blood sweat and tears, the uphill struggle over years the fear and, trash talking and the people it was to, and the people that started it just like you.

The sun doesn’t give light to the moon, assuming the moon’s gonna owe it one.

Against my will I stand beside my own reflection.

I’m losing what I don’t deserve.

Even those who never frown, eventually break down.

The truth is that trust is a gift, it’s something we all can lose so hold on, it’s not where it goes, it’s where it can lead you to.

I want to find something I’ve wanted all along somewhere I belong.

I got a heart full of pain, head full of stress, handful of anger, held in my chest.

I watch how the moon sits in the sky in the dark night, shining with the light from the sun, and the sun doesn’t give light to the moon assuming, the moon’s gonna owe it one.

Fragrance is an incredibly intimate thing. It can evoke very specific thoughts or memories and is a little different for each person who wears it. I also think it’s the most accessible luxury.

Typically in my novels the narrator tells a story by remembering, and the memories are colored by this and colored by that. So the whole universe of the novel tends to be framed by the narrator’s memories and thoughts.

All good novelists have bad memories. What you remember comes out as journalism; what you forget goes into the compost of the imagination.

Music, at its essence, is what gives us memories. And the longer a song has existed in our lives, the more memories we have of it.

The true art of memory is the art of attention.

All my summer memories sparkle in riverbed reflections.

I generally have a real strong idea or a strong punchline, and I just try to get to it by rambling around, as I don’t like to memorize words.

Memory, I realize, can be an unreliable thing; often it is heavily coloured by the circumstances in which one remembers.