Quotes from Christopher Rice

Everyday is a bank account, and time is our currency. No one is rich, no one is poor, we've got 24 hours each.

I think we need to always mimic reality in our fiction. I think that we can stir things up and reveal a truth beneath the surface in that way as well.

Everyday is a bank account, and time is our currency. No one is rich, no one is poor, we've got 24 hours each.

Fear cannot touch me… It can only taunt me, It cannot take me, Just tell me where to go… I can either follow, Or stay in my bed… I can hold on To the things that I know… The dead stay dead, They cannot walk. The shadows are darkness. And darkness cannot talk

Somedays you have to write even when you think you're putting out crap. You just need to tell yourself that you'll fix the problems later, and by then, they might not even be problems anymore. The challenge of writing a novel has always been to let loose with a beautifully flawed first draft, and to constantly fight belief you're chiseling words in stone each time you type.

Make a beautiful mess and clean it up later.

People talked about therapy and change and the power of Christ, but maybe you just had to wake up one day and say you weren't going to do it anymore, you just weren't going to act like someone who felt that way, and you had to begin by saying words that felt strange on your tongue, even if they resonated inside your heart.

When an entire group of people come together and try to make some kind of identity out of what they don't have, they usually end up convincing themselves they can do whatever they damn well please.

dançava para si mesmo, um homem nu entre cegos...

Look at any city through the right memories and it could become a graveyard as haunted as a former battlefield.

Any spot where the earth kisses the clouds is a special place, a place where primal truths reveal themselves to those who've acquired the wisdom of solitude.

She wore a black pantsuit with a white silk shirt that had an almost metallic sheen to it. He wondered whom she had already gone into mourning for; then he reminded himself that she was the type of woman who mourned damaged reputations and lost opportunities, not human beings.

Smartphones, devastating the world one instantly delivered tragedy at a time.

Vengeance is always possible, he said, but only if your memory can endure it.

Is there any training that can prepare you for this moment, being face-to-face with a human monster, a man who seems to glide placidly through the everyday world in a baseball cap, smelling of Old Spice while concealing a gallery of horrors beneath his garage, in the back of his truck, inside his mind?

He had a nice house in the Norma Triangle section of West Hollywood and an ass that could stop a war.

Your skin looks like margarine, and your pants are so tight I feel like congratulating the blood that can get to your ass.

She leaned her head to one side of the pillow to meet her son's eyes. Never give into them, she whispered. No matter what they do or how important you feel it is to get their acceptance. Never kill part of yourself for them. Because other people will notice that part is missing before you do.

This might be the price of vengeance, she thinks. You have to spend the rest of your life living inside the memories of the worst things done to you so you can constantly justify what you did to avenge them.

Anger can give you a false sense of direction when sadness makes you feel lost.

Death comes for the dead.

You can leave. You just don't want to. And the more you give in to that urge, the more you'll come to believe the lies you're telling yourself about what you are and aren't capable of.