You must not think that a satiric style allows of scandalous and brutish words; the better sort abhor scurrility.

The press, the pulpit, and the stage, Conspire to censure and expose our age.

Choose an author as you would a friend.

Pride (of all others the most dang'rous fault) Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.

The men, who labour and digest things most, Will be much apter to despond than boast; For if your author be profoundly good, 'Twill cost you dear before he's understood.

Abstruse and mystic thoughts you must express With painful care, but seeming easiness; For truth shines brightest thro' the plainest dress.

Tis I that call, remember Milo's end, Wedged in that timber which he strove to rend.

Immodest words admit of no defence, For want of decency is want of sense.

We weep and laugh, as we see others do.

The last loud trumpet's wondrous sound, Shall thro' the rending tombs rebound, And wake the nations under ground.

Men still had faults, and men will have them still; He that hath none, and lives as angels do, Must be an angel.

Rereading parts of your novel while writing is like doubling back at rerunning parts of a marathon midrace.

When you are unemployed, weekends are seven days long.

I was in Kashmir last weekend. Went to visit one of my sweaters.

Why are you all here?" "One of Bantazar's assassins hit you with an exomangler," Lore said. "He's dead." "A lot dead." Wraith snorted and high-fived Lore. "Massive deadness.

We ought to feel in our hearts that God is our Father, and that while we make mistakes and are weak yet if we live as nearly perfect as we can all will be well with us.

The pleasure of other people is a byproduct of the pleasure that comes from yourself so I cannot judge or look down on someone who does whatever they feel like doing.

This genuine heart of sadness can teach us great compassion. It can humble us when we're arrogant and soften us when we are unkind.

The thing about art is that life is in no danger of being meaningless.

They should have focused more on me.

What is God trying to tell me? ... I'm just so tired. Why are people sabotaging me? Why, when I try to do something right, do people get angry?