All cannot be lost when there is still so much being found

The world is quiet here.

Sometimes, when someone tells a ridiculous lie, it is best to ignore it entirely.

Wicked people never have time for reading. It’s one of the reasons for their wickedness.

I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make everyone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are opened and discovered, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled.

I create the illusion of knowledge with random facts.

Hatred would have been easier. With hatred, I would have known what to do. Hatred is clear, metallic, one-handed, unwavering; unlike love.

When you begin a journey of revenge, start by digging two graves: one for your enemy, and one for yourself.

I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others—young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.

I do believe in an everyday sort of magic — the inexplicable connectedness we sometimes experience with places, people, works of art and the like; the eerie appropriateness of moments of syncronicity; the whispered voice, the hidden presence, when we think we’re alone.