Rule number one: Don't fuck with librarians.
Peas baffled me. I could not understand why grown-ups would take things that tasted so good raw, and then put them in tins, and make them revolting.
Everything had been going so well, he'd had it really under his thumbthese few centuries. That's how it goes, you think you're on top of the world, and suddenly they springArmageddon on you.
It is good for children to find themselves facing the elements of a fairy tale - they are well-equipped to deal with these
It occurred to me then that the man might not be mad; I found this far more disquieting than the alternative.
His beard was all colors, a grove of trees in autumn, deep brown and fire-orange and wine-red, an untrimmed tangle across the lower half of his face. His cheeks were apple-red. He looked like a friend...
Soon enough his head would be swimming with tales of derring-do and high adventure, tales of beautiful maidens kissed, of evildoers shot with pistols or fought with swords, of bags of gold, of diamond...
You hurt. It's okay. I hurt too. Hold my hand.
People named Tinkerbell name their daughters Susan.
Lives are snowflakes - unique in detail, forming patterns we have seen before, but as like one another as peas in a pod (and have you ever looked at peas in a pod? I mean, really at them? There's not...
I’m just a soul whose intentions are good,’ he sang to the crabs and the spiders and the palmetto beetles and the lizards and the night. ‘Oh lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.
She tasted the day he lost his first job. She tasted the morning he had awakened, still drunk, in his car, in the middle of a cornfield, and, terrified, had sworn off the bottle for ever. She knee his...
I will not be my father's dog.
It's harder to pick and choose when you're dead. It's like a photograph, you know. It doesn't matter as much.
I'll show you an imaginative re-creation, my fist imaginatively re-creating your fucken face for starters.
Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all...
Every lover is, in his heart, a madman, and, in his head, a minstrel.
Songs remain. They last...A song can last long after the events and the people in it are dust and dreams and gone. That's the power of songs.
Don't confuse the teacher with the lesson, the ritual with the ecstasy, the transmitter of the symbol with the symbol itself.
The universe is amply supplied with night.