As such, anything is always possible, even if your protagonist is a plumber. But it's the possibility, the limitless possibilities, of any fake life, that make writing about it so challenging.

Every once in a while when I get a migraine, I like to think, "Who hates me today?"

You know you're screwed when a Western doctor recommends acupuncture.

I think what can be most shameful or embarrassing is when our bodies broadcast a secret we'd prefer no one to know. This is why I hate rashes, in particular face rashes.

We want to believe we couldn't be replaced, and that the people we love are irreplaceable.

No matter what you wear, not everyone is going to understand what you're saying.

I surround myself with women who inspire me to be more ambitious, and who constantly astonish me with their magnetism, style, and smarts.

I wouldn't be myself if I weren't always trying to be someone else. I only have so much time on this earth and I want to be as many people as possible.

I spend far too much time on eBay buying lamps and upholstery remnants.

I've subsequently become conscious of MAKING MEMORIES. Which makes me sound like a scrapbooker.

I am simply looking for a companion with whom to spend my days, a companion who will cherish as much as I the stupidity of living in the moment, and spend every dull, amazing second with me.

If only one word of the ‘Gnani Purush’ [the enlightened one] is understood, then your welfare [that which liberates] is done.

On your journey to achieve your dreams you will face challenges that will test you to the core.

Drive through a yellow light, and you may be ticketed thanks to a camera tied onto a pole. Everybody's watching everything. And then sending it out to the world via email.

I must be the luckiest man in the world. Not only am I bisexual, I am also Welsh.

Love conquers all things; let us own her dominion.

People never leave a sinking ship until they see the lights of another ship approaching.

The heart is naturally hard, and grows harder by custom in sin, especially by long abuse of mercy, neglect of the means of grace, and resisteing the spirit of grace.

Somebody asked Somerset Maugham about his place in the pantheon of writers, and he said, "I'm in the very front row of the second rate." I'm sort of haunted by that.

There is no murder. We make murder, and it matters only to us.