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What is your name? asked Lear. Caius, said Kent. And whence do you hail? From Bonking, sire. Well, yes, lad, as do we all, said Lear, but from what town?

Christopher Moore

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Christopher Moore
Age: 67
Born: 1957
Born: January 1
Actor
Assistant Director
Journalist
Novelist
Radio Dj
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Toledo
Ohio
Asked
Sire
Name
Kent
Lear
Names
Lad
Wells
Whence
Well
Hail
Town
Towns
Caius

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He always had a problem with the purity of others. Never his own.
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I was seven before I realized that you could eat breakfast with your pants on.
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She was an alien, really - a sort of eating, pooping, tantrum machine - and he didn't understand anything about her species.
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And an inky-colored despair of rejection enveloped me like the black tortilla of depression around a pain burrito.
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You're trying to be tricky. What's morality? It's the difference between what's right and what you can rationalize. Must be a human thing. Exactly.
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I could stand on my head and flick the bean right there at the dinner table and my mom would be all, Honey, Christmas is family time, we should be together and make me finish in front of everyone.
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Children see magic because they look for it.
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An adventure story is fear recalled in comfort.
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Action based on hope just felt better than the paralysis of certainty.
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If you think anyone is sane you just don't know enough about them.
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Chapter 8, Dinner With the Vampire: Is there something wrong with your food? No, I'm just not very hungry. You're going to break my heart, aren't you?
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They were told what they wanted and they believed it. They can only keep their dream alive by being with others like themselves who will mirror their illusions.
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Christmas crept into Pine Cove like a creeping Christmas thing: dragging garland, ribbon, and sleigh bells, oozing eggnog, reeking of pine, and threatening festive doom like a cold sore under the mistletoe.
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Theophilus Crowe's mobile phone played eight bars of Tangled Up in Blue in an irritating electronic voice that sounded like a choir of suffering houseflies, or Jiminy Cricket huffing helium, or, well, you know, Bob Dylan.
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Why write a song when no one can play the notes or understand the lyrics?
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Like God's own chocolate, I'd lick her shadow off a hot sidewalk
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