“Who here wants to be a writer?' I asked. Everyone in the room raised his hand. 'Why the hell aren't you home writing?' I said, and left the stage.”

“You want to know about the place called Hell?" he asked the curious animal. "There is no Hell," he said. "Hell is in here." He touched the raw, pink skin of his chest with the tips of his fingers. "And it will forever brun inside me for what I have done.”

“I want to be a writer, not an engineer who writes books.”

“And quit baring your fangs at me. It's making me nervous.""Good," Simon said. "if you want to know why, it's because you smell like blood.""It's my cologne. Eau de Recent Injury." Jace raised his left hand.”

“I want you to close your eyes. I want you to fall asleep first.""Why?" She asked suddenly afraid he would slip out of the room as soon as she did."Because I'll be here in the morning.”

“As you know, Joyce was a writer who asked his reader to give him a lifetime,” he said. “I am that reader, and I can tell you it was a wasted life.”