God is cruel. Sometimes he makes you live.

I guess when you turn off the main road, you have to be prepared to see some funny houses.

The place where you made your stand never mattered. Only that you were there… and still on your feet.

It’s better to be good than evil, but one achieves goodness at a terrific cost.

People want to know why I do this, why I write such gross stuff. I like to tell them I have the heart of a small boy… and I keep it in a jar on my desk.

The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool.

He had a massive stroke. He died with his tie on. Do you think that could be our generation’s equivalent of that old saying about dying with your boots on?

French is the language that turns dirt into romance.

The devil’s voice is sweet to hear.

Talent in cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.

We make up horrors to help us cope with the real ones.

The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of because words diminish your feelings – words shrink things that seem timeless when they are in your head to no more than living size when they are brought out.

Get busy living, or get busy dying.

You can’t deny laughter; when it comes, it plops down in your favorite chair and stays as long as it wants.

I am the literary equivalent of a Big Mac and Fries.

God is cruel. Sometimes he makes you live.

Only enemies speak the truth; friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web of duty.

Each life makes its own immitation of immortality.

When asked, “How do you write?” I invariably answer, “one word at a time.”

Fiction is the truth inside the lie.

When his life was ruined, his family killed, his farm destroyed, Job knelt down on the ground and yelled up to the heavens, “Why god? Why me?” and the thundering voice of God answered, “There’s just something about you that pisses me off.”

I watched Titanic when I got back home from the hospital, and cried. I knew that my IQ had been damaged.

No, it’s not a very good story – its author was too busy listening to other voices to listen as closely as he should have to the one coming from inside.