What do you think love is - a thing to startle from the heart like a bird at every shout or blow? You can fly from me, high as you choose into your d….

She is our moon. Our tidal pull. She is the rich deep beneath the sea, the buried treasure, the expression in the owl's eye, the perfume in the wild ….

Love is an obsolete emotion, ranking in usefulness somewhere between earwigs and toe mold..

But you must stop playing among his ghosts -- it's stupid and dangerous and completely pointless. He's trying to lay them to rest here, not stir them….

I write fantasy because it's there. I have no other excuse for sitting down for several hours a day indulging my imagination. Daydreaming. Thinking u….

I do not want to choose which one of you I must love or hate. Here, I am free to do neither. I want no part of your bitterness..

Do you become in visible?' 'No. I'm there, if you know how to look. I stand between the place you look at and the place you see. Behind what you expe….

...that once were urgent and necessary for an orderly world and now were buried away, gathering dust and of no use to anyone..

At its best, fantasy rewards the reader with a sense of wonder about what lies within the heart of the commonplace world. The greatest tales are told….

Peace, tremulous, unexpected, sent a taproot out of nowhere into Morgan's heart..

Content, it dreams awake, and spins the fabric of tales. There is really nothing to be done with such imagery except to use it: in writing, in art..

There are no simple words. I don't know why I thought I could hide anything behind language..

Then you will have to trust me. Beyond logic, beyond reason, beyond hope, trust me..

Imagination is best fed by reality, an odd diet for something nonexistent there are few details of daily life and its broad range of emotional contex….

Men see what they are most afraid of..

I would be mute, beautiful, changless as the earth for you. I would be your memory, without age, always innocent, always waiting in the King's white ….

Only yesterday a young woman came to me wanting a trap set for a man with a sweet smile and lithe arms. She was a fool, not for wanting him, but for ….

But even in the schoolyard I'd been aware of that silence, that reserve in him, as though he'd been raised by foxes and language was his second langu….

I thought of you with your hair silver as snow all through that cold, slow journey from Sirle. I felt you troubled deep within me, and there was no o….

What?" It was a good word. Like a rock in a river, sticking up to let you land on it, so you could make your way across the flow..

The man was hit in one eye by a stone, and that eye turned inward so that it looked into his mind, and he died of what he saw there.