“Question for your life: If your face looked like your ass, and I’m not implying it doesn’t, would you consider invading Russia in the middle of winter wearing only shorts?”

“What are you doing?” he gasped. He looked slightly ridiculous. It was not as if he was a defenseless damsel in distress. He could have stopped me, if he wanted to. But he didn’t want to. Besides, I’ve always considered this to be the most idiotic question in the world. I’m pulling off your pants to have a good look at your dick and your ass, is the obvious answer. Looking being only the first step, by the way.”

“I’m not interested in writing short stories. Anything that doesn’t take years of your life and drive you to suicide hardly seems worth doing.”

“You may have the worst timing since Napoleon decided the dead of winter was the right moment to invade Russia.”

“When you die, you’ll be wearing your white dress with red roses, and your hair will be long and falling around your shoulders. When they shoot you, up on your damn roof or walking alone on the street, your blood will look like another red rose on your dress, and no one will notice, not even you when you bleed out for Mother Russia.”

“Courage doesn’t happen when you have all the answers. It happens when you are ready to face the questions you have been avoiding your whole life.”