Neil Gaiman

We wrapped our dreams in words and patterned the words so that they would live forever, unforgettable.

You can't trust other people. If it's important, you have to do it yourself.

I'll find you. Don't worry. Just be on your own and I'll find you.

And he waited. It was only for a few seconds, but it felt like a small forever.

Not gay, just never met the right woman.

There's an expression, deja vu, that means that you feel like you've been somewhere before, that you've somehow already dreamed it or experienced it in your mind.

Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found. Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped to help you in their turn. Trust dreams. Trust your heart, and trust your story. (from 'Instructions')

There's a but, isn't there?" said Coraline. "I can feel it. Like a rain cloud.

Never mind. There. For good or bad. It's done.

I'm going to go home. Everything is going to be normal again. Boring again. Wonderful again.

There are some dogs which, when you meet them, remind you that, despite thousands of years of man-made evolution, every dog is still only two meals away from being a wolf. These dogs advance deliberately, purposefully, the wilderness made flesh, their teeth yellow, their breath a-stink, while in the distance their owners witter, "He's an old soppy really, just poke him if he's a nuisance," and in the green of their eyes the red campfires of the Pleistocene gleam and flicker.

Richard began to understand darkness: darkness as something solid and real, so much more than a simple absence of light. He felt it touch his skin, questing, moving, exploring: gliding through his mind. It slipped into his lungs, behind his eyes, into his mouth.

It is sometimes a mistake to climb; it is always a mistake never even to make the attempt.

What should I believe? thought Shadow, and the voice came back to him from somewhere deep beneath the world, in a bass rumble: Believe everything.

Things bloosom in their time. They bud and bloom, blossom and fade. Everything in its time.

I toyed briefly with an image someone once mentioned to me, of a village in the shadow of a twin-peaked mountain. In the morning the sun rises. At lunch it sets behind the mountain. In the early afternoon it rises once more. The cocks crow for the second time, and later the sun sets again. No. One peak. Metaphors should not be belaboured.

Not only are there no happy endings,' she told him, 'there aren't even any endings.

The ties of blood," said Spider, "are stronger than water." Water's not strong," objected Fat Charlie.

Suppose we pick a name for him, eh?" Caius Pompeius stepped over and eyed the child. "He looks a little like my proconsul, Marcus. We could call him Marcus." Josiah Worthington said, "He looks more like my head gardener, Stebbins. Not that I'm suggesting Stebbins as a name. The man drank like a fish." "He looks like my nephew Harry," said Mother Slaughter... "He looks like nobody but himself," said Mrs.Owens, firmly. "He looks like nobody." "Then Nobody it is," said Silas. "Nobody Owens.

You don't get explanations in real life. You just get moments that are absolutely, utterly, inexplicably odd.

There are accounts that, if we open our hearts to them, will cut us too deeply.