Nothing’s better for art than a little old-fashioned suffering.
Don’t be fooled into thinking that love is special. That it’ll fill you up forever. Anyone can fall in love, but only you can make the art you were born for. And that’s the kind of happiness that lasts.
I have no idea how to be an artist and a lover, so I chose the one most likely to make me happy when I’m eighty and gazing back on a long and productive life.
Music is always the first thing I notice when I go someplace new.
Writing catchy pop songs is a super-minor superpower, but it’s mine.
Sad songs are not my strong suit. All the songs that have saved my life make you feel like driving with the top down or dancing in your room with your best friend.
There’s only one kind of girl I can tolerate being, and it is not the Girl Who Gives it All Up for Love.
The threat of failure shouldn’t kill the fun of dreaming.
The way she says kiss, it sounds different. Like she invented the word specifically for the song.
Electricity crackles from her lips to mine and I’m stunned it’s not visible.
They are kissing—finally, extravagantly, like it’s the first thirty seconds of a kissing competition and they can’t imagine they’ll ever get tired.
Time flies when you’re fulfilling your ambitions in a completely unexpected way.
You can stop waiting, you know,’ she says. ‘For what?’ ‘For God to strike you down.
What she has is effortlessly remarkable, the kind of gift you only feel the weight of if it’s something you don’t have but dearly want.
I’ve always loved Halloween: the one day of the year when you can blatantly dress as your number-one obsession and people will smile instead of snicker.