I have noticed that when all the lights are on, people tend to talk about what they are doing – their outer lives. Sitting round in candlelight or firelight, people start to talk about how they are feeling – their inner lives. They speak subjectively, they argue less, there are longer pauses. To sit alone without any electric light is curiously creative. I have my best ideas at dawn or at nightfall, but not if I switch on the lights – then I start thinking about projects, deadlines, demands, and the shadows and shapes of the house become objects, not suggestions, things that need to done, not a background to thought.
—  Jeanette Winterson, Why I Adore the Night
People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist. We can rediscover them. Their humor, their tone of voice, their moods. Through the written word they can anger you or make you happy. They can comfort you. They can perplex you. They can alter you. All this, even though they are dead. Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic.
—  The Thirteenth Tale, Diane Setterfield.
It’s not about the sex. It’s about being able to hold her whenever I want to, or better yet, need to. It’s about knowing that she’s mine. It’s about the fact that from here until eternity she and I are one. Yes, the sex is a great benefit but the connection is so much more vital. Look for that, wait for that, don’t settle for less than that.
—  life-changing relationship advice I received tonight
In a chemical sense, we really blend in with the people around us like spilled paint; your molecules and mine are continually drifting off the surface of our skin, breathed out of our noses, flaked off hair and scalps. Individuals don’t have sharp edges. We blur into each other’s space like perfume molecules wafting from an open bottle.
—  K. C. Cole, The Universe and the Teacup: Mathematics of Truth and Beauty
Say what you like about me. Tempter I may be, tormentor, liar, accuser, blasphemer and all-round bad egg, but no one else gets the credit for the discovery of angelic freedom. That, my fleshy friends, was Lucifer. (Ironic of course that after the Fall they stopped referring to me as Lucifer, the Bearer of Light and started referring to me as Satan, the Adversary. Ironic that they stripped me of my angelic name at the very moment I began to be worthy of it.)
—  I, Lucifer, Glen Duncan
Even if you think the flame has died, there’s at least one lyric that’ll hit that last hot spot, and then you’ll find yourself as fucked as you were the day you lied and said you never wanted to see her again.
—  John Mayer
“No! Please! I’ll tell you whatever you want to know!“ the man yelled.
"Really?” said Vimes “What’s the orbital velocity of the moon?”
“Oh, you’d like something simpler?”
—  Terry Pratchett, Night Watch