Michael: There's nothing here to fear.Lucifer: Well, there's always the truth.

But you can't save people from the world.There's nowhere else to take them

Fear is a serviceable tool, I suppose. Like the stalls in a battery farm. If you want to keep people from their collective strength, make them too afraid of each other to ever meet or talk.

Those heart-hammering nightmares that start to lose coherence even as you're waking up from them, but that still manage to leave their moldering fingerprints all across your day.

You know what it's like to *lose* yourself in a story. We have brother and sister *souls*.

Dragons were a problem sometimes, but they only came on Tuesdays, so you could work around them.

Because all the waters of the ocean won't fill a bucket with a hole in it. And that's their fall, and that's their fellowship. Desire. The hole in the bucket: the gulf of yearning into which the soul empties itself.

It was a hot, moist armpit of a night...

If I had a box full of all the evils of the world, I'd open it just a little way and push you inside. Then I'd close it again for always.

So what I’m getting at is this. Okay, maybe it’s cold in the grave. Maybe you come out of the light and you think, Fuck your mother, this is bad. This is worse than anything I would have guessed. But the trick is to clench your teeth, get a running start and dive.When I hit that other country, from whose bourne no traveller back-pedals, I’m going to be moving fast. I’m gambling that the first ten seconds or so will be the worst.

You know, I'm like Avis rent-a-car: Because I'm insignificant, I try harder.

You know what pulp is, Mr. Tallis? It's the flesh of a luscious fruit, mashed down into an incredible, half liquid richness. so saturated with flavor that it fills your whole body, not just your mouth.

All stories are lies. But good stories are lies made from light and fire. And they lift our hearts out of the dust, and out of the grave.

We make our own monsters, then fear them for what they show us about ourselves.

I have stared into the light and you are all my shadows.

No, there are no special places in hell. Hell is a democracy.

You move on. You move back. On because you're always getting older, back because there's always a set of habits and routines to catch you and suck you back in when your guard is down.

The trouble is, writing the damn thing is like unscrewing your skull and pouring the contents of your brain into an empty tank. The tank has a shape, more or less - has more or less defined edges, a bottom and sides. But what it mostly has is volume: a hungry space I've somehow got to fill.

Beliefs are collars to which leashes can be attached

And for Peter... well, sometimes cruelty is kindness in disguise. Sometimes pain is the best teacher. Sometimes it does you no harm to realize that there's a limit to what you can get away with.