“Beach Balls at festivals, are the work of the devil!”

“The beach is not a place to work; to read, write or to think.”

“No more relaxing around the Chateau or on the beach, no more balls or fancy dresses. Okay, well maybe balls; I did love to dance, but that would have to wait for later. After I kicked some serious evil vampire butt.”

“Organization is the Devil's work.”

“Here's a nice image for a life in balance,” she said. “You're juggling these four balls that you've named work, family, friends, spirit. Now, work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it bounces back. The other balls they're made of glass.”“I've dropped a few of those glass balls in my day. Sometimes they chip, sometimes they shatter to pieces.”

“What most people find festive—a weekend at a beach shack with friends, a boat trip down a river, a crackling bonfire on a summer night—I see as a bleak nightmare to be grimly endured. I would sooner put lit cigarettes in my eyes than share a vacation house with a crowd.”