Not a word passes between us, not because we have nothing to say, but because we don't have to say anything
Truth might be stranger than fiction, but it needs a better editor.
I've always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.
There are a few moments in your life when you are truly and completely happy, and you remember to give thanks. Even as it happens you are nostalgic for the moment, you are tucking it away in your scrapbook.
This is good, life must continue, we are fighting barbarians, but we must remain human.
She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. He mouth was cold, her lips rough from the winter wind, and if the mystics are right and we are doomed to repeat our squalid lives ad infinitum, at least I will always return to that kiss
Once you realise that heroes die, everything becomes that much more terrifying.
Listening to music that I hate calms me down.
I believe that a man is converted when first he hears the low, vast murmur of life, of human life, troubling his hitherto unconscious self.
There's a place in the world for the angry young man With his working class ties and his radical plans He refuses to bend he refuses to crawl And he's always at home with his back to the wall And he's proud of his scars and the battles he's lost And struggles and bleeds as he hangs on his cross And likes to be known as the angry young man.
A lot of people had to die for me to be me.