The horns came riding in like the rainbow masts of silver ships..

The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone. She was very old, though she did not know it, and she was no longer the careless color of….

If she had touched me," he said very softly, "I would have been hers and not my own, not ever again. I wanted her to touch me but I could not let her….

Real magic can never be made by offering someone else's liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back..

Farewell,' she said. 'I hope you hear many more songs' - which was the best way she could think of to say good-bye to a butterfly..

We are not always what we seem, and hardly ever what we dream..

There are no happy endings, because nothing ends..

The magician was studying her face with his green eyes. "Your face is wet," he said worriedly. "I hope that's spray. If you've become human enough to….

The true secret in being a hero lies in knowing the order of things. The swineherd cannot already be wed to the princess when he embarks on his adven….

Marveling at his own boldness, he said softly, "I would enter your sleep if I could, and guard you there, and slay the thing that hounds you, as I wo….

...but the enchantment of error that you put on me I must wear forever in your eyes..

song of elli (old age) "What is plucked will grow again, What is slain lives on, What is stolen will remain What is gone is gone... What is sea-born ….

As for you and your heart and the things you said and didn't say, she will remember them all when men are fairy tales in books written by rabbits..

I always say perseverance is nine-tenths of any art — not that it's much help to be nine-tenths an artist, of course..

Unicorns are not to be forgiven." The magician felt himself growing giddy with jealousy, not only of the touch but of something like a secret that wa….

Her face was a stranger’s face, which was as it should be. Love each other from the day we are born to the day we die, we are still strangers every m….

How's the Angel of Death supposed to do his job with clipped wings?.

This creature is the Pooka. Pay no mind to the shape he wears, for he’s none of his own, and no soul either. Ware him ever, trust him never, but when….

there never is a happy ending because nothing ever ends..

I'll tell you something. Once I was very fond of a poem by Emily Dickinson or somebody. I only remember one line of it, but it goes, 'The soul select….

But what I thought, and what I still think, and always will, is that she saw me. Nobody else has ever seen me — me, Jenny Gluckstein — like that. Not….