I was adopting an Ethiopian child, that's not true. My house was haunted, that wasn't true. God, there's been so many rumours.

You have to prioritize what you stress about when you have a child.

Nature is a haunted house--but Art--is a house that tries to be haunted.

It had begun to be present to him after the first fortnight, it had broken out with the oddest abruptness, this particular wanton wonderment: it met him there--and this was the image under which he himself judged the matter, or at least, not a little, thrilled and flushed with it--very much as he might have been met by some strange figure, some unexpected occupant, at a turn of one of the dim passages of an empty house. The quaint analogy quite hauntingly remained with him, when he didn't indeed rather improve it by a still intenser form: that of his opening a door behind which he would have made sure of finding nothing, a door into a room shuttered and void, and yet so coming, with a great suppressed start, on some quite erect confronting presence, something planted in the middle of the place and facing him through the dusk.

I've never been more normal than I am now.

I grew up in a haunted house, reading Dr. Seuss.