But for half a minute she wished it was a different sort of day, even though she knew that nothing good could come from wanting at the world. Even though she knew it was a wicked thing to do.

She was a wicked thing sometimes. All full of want. As if the shape of the world depended on her mood. As if she were important.

But no. There is a difference between the truth and what we wish were true.

It exhasperated her, but she knew better than to force the world to her desire.

She knew the true shape of the world. All else was shadow and the sound of distant drums.

I cannot help but wonder how many of us walk through our lives, day after day, feeling slightly broken and alone, surrounded all the time by others who feel exactly the same way.

Answers were always important, but they were seldom easy.

Some days simply lay on you like stones.

The gesture was so tight with rage she feared she’d snap and crack the world in two.

I love her more than just a little. I think it's because we're both somewhat broken, in our own odd ways. More importantly, we're both aware of it.

But for half a minute she wished it was a different sort of day, even though she knew that nothing good could come from wanting at the world.

Love says, "I'm with you, let's deal with it.

They who pray not, know nothing of God, and know nothing of the state of their own souls.

If journalists ask you again and again about the same bands, you'll end up saying you hate them just because you're so fed up with being asked all those stupid questions.

I want to make good films; I don't want to make films for the moment.

It is a law of nature we overlook, that intellectual versatility is the compensation for change, danger, and trouble.

Nevertheless, whether in occurrences lasting days, hours or mere minutes at a time, I have experienced happiness often, and have had brief encounters with it in my later years, even in old age.

If you work hard, it will pay off in the end.

Death is turning out the lamp because the dawn has appeared.

When I look back at my past and the way I grew up, I grew up on communes. That was meant to be.

Every writer is a writer of the generation before.