Цитаты из книги «Простые смертные», страница 8

For one voyage to begin, another voyage must come to an end, sort of.

If life didn’t change, it wouldn’t be life, it'd be a photograph. Even photos change, mind. They fade.

Spring adds, summer multiplies, autumn subtracts, winter divides.

Art feasts upon its maker.

A writer flirts with schizophrenia, nurtures synesthesia, and embraces obsessive-compulsive disorder. Your art feeds on you, your soul, and, yes, to a degree, your sanity. Writing novels worth reading will bugger up your mind, jeopardize your relationships, and distend your life. You have been warned.

We live on, as long as there are people to live on in.

If an atrocity isn't written about, it stops existing when the last witnesses die. That's what I can't stand. If a mass shooting, a bomb, a whatever, is written about, then at least it's made a tiny dent in the world's memory. Someone, somewhere, some time, has a chance of learning what happened. And, just maybe, acting on it. Or not. But at least it's there.

Persuasion is not about force; it's about showing a person a door, and making him or her desperate to open it.

Sex may be the antidote to death but it offers life everlasting only to the species, not the individual.

Love's pure free joy when it works, but when it goes bad you pay for the good hours at loan-shark prices.