The purpose of poetry is to restore to mankind the possibility to wonder.
Our political divides have become our personal divides.
A pool of melancholy blooms in my chest and rushes into my body like deep-blue blood.
It must be that there is something in the hearts of human beings, some natural fluid perhaps, that insists on happiness, even confronted with the most powerful arguments against it.
There is little novelty in the detective who cannot solve himself.
There is no shortage of ways that people profit indirectly from the misery and cruelty in other places. Even now, the shirts we wear and the tomatoes we eat. There are unfortunately unfair and inhumane conditions - including literal slavery - all over the world.
Because as any writer will tell you, an IDEA for a book is like falling in love, it's all wild emotion and headlong rush, but the ACTUAL ACT of writing a book is like building a relationship: it is joyous, slow, fragile, frustrating, exhilarating, painstaking, exhausting, worth it.
There are many roads to happiness, if the gods assent.
The world is dyed with the color of blood. It will never be able to go back to the way it was before.
Attention is a strange sort of being, anyway, the idea of attention if someone appreciates your work. It's always nice that someone appreciates your work.
I really realized how much happier I am when I'm doing projects that I'm chosen to do, and on the flip side, how much unhappier I am on projects that make me feel uncomfortable.