We who are left, how shall we look again Happily on the sun or feel the rain Without remembering how they who went Ungrudgingly and spent Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?

The cake had a trick candle that wouldn't go out, so I didn't get my wish. Which was just that it would always be like this, that my life could be a party just for me.

Pain was uniquely one's own, and undiminished by a democracy of suffering.

A very wise man once told me that you can't look back-you just have to put the past behind you, and find something better in your future.

If I could just capture each memory in a bottle the maybe you people would understand how much I've suffered, how much I've been through, but most importantly how far I have come.

She was born of space. And starlight. But she bled wrath. And vengeance.."[From Current Work In Progress]

Every man without passions has within him no principle of action nor motive to act.

If you would reform the world from its errors and vices, begin by enlisting the mothers.

The mass of mankind is divided into two classes, the Sancho Panza's who have a sense for reality, but no ideals, and the Don Quixote's with a sense for ideals, but mad.

The great risk is always saying, "how will I communicate what I'm trying to get across to a room full of strangers sitting in the dark watching a stage?"

In general, short stories are less read than before, they're less published than before and, not surprisingly, they're less taught than before.