Archie Sheridan had a paper birthday hat on his head and six bullets in his front pocket. The bullets rattled when he moved, making a clinking sound that no one else seemed able to hear.

No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.

The forest was black and Darko was afraid to enter.

“So how was it? How was…the moon?” You have no further questions. Because he went to the moon. And now he’s sitting here, at your table in a dark and crowded D.C. restaurant.

Every summer Lin Kong returned to Goose Village to divorce his wife, Shuyu.

Being a mistress on the side, it might not appeal to fools like you.

It was Mum who kept trying to make a lady of me through all my growing-up years but it was Grams who taught me her magic tricks and how to be a pickpocket, and of the two of them I have to say that Grams’ lessons certainly proved the more valuable to me in my life.

My suffering left me sad and gloomy.

When I was born, people in our village commiserated with my mother and nobody congratulated my father.

I’m gettin’ tired of your shit
You don’t never buy me nothin’.

I am not thinking of Death, but Death is thinking of me.

Lydia is dead. But they don’t know this yet. 1977, May 3, six thirty in the morning, no one knows anything but this innocuous fact: Lydia is late for breakfast.

The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.

My father’s wife died. My mother said we should drive down to his place and see what might be in it for us.

It’s hard to see an invincible man break.

Warning!!! This self-serving celebrity autobiography is different from other self-serving celebrity autobiographies. Because this is a choose-your-own autobiography … and YOU AND YOU ALONE will be responsible for living the life of Neil Patrick Harris.

It is a sin to write this. It is a sin to think words no others think and to put them down upon a paper no others are to see.

Since the beginning of time, bullshit, flowery overgeneralization with at least one thesaurus’d vocabulary word. In addition, irrelevant and misleading personal anecdote.

She was so deeply imbedded in my consciousness that for the first year of school I seem to have believed that each of my teachers was my mother in disguise.

A girl always remembers the first corpse she shaves. It is the only event in her life more awkward than her first kiss or the loss of her virginity.

I seldom have nightmares. When I do, they are usually flitting images of the everyday things I see on the job: crushed and perforated skulls, lopped-off limbs and severed heads, roasted and disolving corpses, hanks of human hair and heaps of white bones…

Mom, my depression is a shape-shifter. One day, it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear. The next, it’s the bear.

I am afraid of the cops. Absolutely petrified of the cops. Now understand, I’ve never been arrested or held for questioning. I’ve never been told that I “fit the description.” But that doesn’t change a thing. I am afraid of cops the way that spiders are afraid of boots.

Let’s get one thing straight: in order to live in Tehran you have to lie. Morals don’t come into it; lying in Tehran is about survival.

Love can only be described the way it is lived: in parts, hoping that the whole makes sense even though we know none of the pieces do.