Life

The miracle is life, time and nature, three sacred gifts, ends with 'e'.

I feel lonely, it never goes away;the crowd makes me feel lonely.

What a paradox! People hate to be miserable but choose to be miserable. Remember this the next time misery arrives.

Choose well how to live the next moment.

Strange how a tiny hand could make the weight of his new responsibilities feel like a boulder on his chest.

The cruel irony of housework: people only notice when you don't do it.

Beauty is ever to the lonely mind a shadow fleeting; she is never plain. She is a visitor who leaves behind the gift of grief, the souvenir of pain.

I do not want to foresee the future. I am concerned with taking care of the present. God has given me no control over the moment following.

The person lives twice who lives the first life well.

I’ve perfected the art of the fake smile. It’s not so difficult when you are completely numb.

Just think of it as a picnic with guns and monsters instead of mosquitoes and ants. Do we have fun or what?

A lot of actors find it impossible not to ask for the audience's sympathy. They have a need to twinkle.

Graceful aging starts by leveling the playing field between emotional landmines and physical grievances.

However much grief I carried, I liked the way my life was tending, these bright new directions. It's only human, to mourn and to reach toward forwardness at once.

Nobody has ever taken a photograph of something they want to forget. We can build a wall of happy Kodak moments around ourselves, a wall of our Christmases, birthdays, baby showers and weddings, but we can never forget that celluloid film is see-through, that behind it, all the misery of real life waits for our wall to collapse someday.

The utter unbroken silence was more appalling than any ominous noise, than the loudest yells of anguish, than the most piercing screaming...Dead silence.Literally dead.

Depression is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests to send people scurrying in concern, just the slow erosion of self, as insidious as cancer. And like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience; a room in hell with only your name on the door.

The writer must wade into life as into the sea, but only up to the navel.

I live in vice. I eat twice - with a advice.

After college, I went on a real big classics kick. Read everything by Faulkner, Hemingway, Woolf, Proust, Dostoevsky. And that classics train dropped me off at 'Dracula.' Halfway through it, I understood I'd never be going back, never 'leaving' the genre again. Since then, I've been on a fairly strict horror diet.