Michel Faber (born 13 April 1960) is a Dutch-born writer of English-language fiction, including his 2002 novel The Crimson Petal and the White.
You want Paradise, you gotta build it on war, on blood, on envy and naked greed.
Clothes are nothing more than a fig leaf. And the bodies beneath are just another layer of clothing, an outfit of flesh with an impractically thin leather exterior, in various shades of pink, yellow and brown. The souls alone are real. Seen in this way, there can never be any such thing as social unease or shyness or embarrassment. All you need do is greet your fellow soul.
A single day spent doing things which fail to nourish the soul is a day stolen, mutilated, and discarded in the gutter of destiny.
Of course I know that the twins are only words on a page, and I'm certainly not the sort of writer who talks to his characters or harbours any illusions about the creative process. But at the same time, I think it's juvenile and arrogant when literary writers compulsively remind their readers that the characters aren't real. People know that already. The challenge is to make an intelligent reader suspend disbelief, to seduce them into the reality of a narrative.
Most true things are kind of corny, don’t you think? But we make them more sophisticated out of sheer embarrassment.
Watch your step. Keep your wits about you; you will need them.
But miracles are not for the asking; they come only when the stern eyes of God droop shut for a moment, and Our Lady takes advantage of His inattention to grant an illicit mercy. God. . . is an Anglican, whereas Our Lady is of the True Faith; the two of Them have an uneasy relationship, unable to agree on anything, except that if They divorce, the Devil will leap gleefully into the breach.
And you know what people immediately start looking for, five minutes after they arrive someplace new? You know what's on their minds? I'll tell you: How are they gonna get laid, and where are they gonna find some mind-altering substances.
The world changes too fast. You take your eyes off something that's always been there, and the next minute it's just a memory.
Reassurance is such a sad, mad thing. Deep inside, everyone knows the truth.
History indulges strange whims in the way it dresses its women.
Most distracting of all, though, was not the threat of danger but the allure of beauty.
I am a fallen woman, but I assure you: I did not fall. I was pushed.
Participating in Society in not a thing one can do naturally; one has to rehearse for it.
Nowadays, her life is more like a newspaper: aimless, up-to-date and full of meaningless events