That’s the thing about stories. They’re more than words. They live inside of us. They make us who we are. And as long as someone believes that, there will always be magic.
Either I’m embellishing a story for shocking effect, or I’m the only one telling the truth in a room full of liars.
When we die we turn into stories. And every time someone tells one of those stories, it’s like we’re still here for them. We’re all stories in the end.
What’s on the paper, that tells a story that we want to tell. But what’s not on the paper, that’s what people remember.
This whole world is a story. I’ve read every page except the last one. I need to find out how it ends. I want to know what this all means.
Brother cardinals, we need to go back to being prohibited. Inaccessible and mysterious. That’s the only way we will once again become desirable. That’s the only way great love stories are born. And I don’t want any more part-time believers. I want great love stories. I want fanatics for God. Because fanaticism is love.