Those who fear the imagination condemn it: something childish, they say, something monsterish, misbegotten. Not all of us dream awake. But those of us who do have no choice.
I wish you were small again, so I could hold you in my arms and comfort you. But you are grown, and you know that for some things there is no comfort.
The odd thing about people who had many books was how they always wanted more.
Epics are never written about libraries. They exist on whim it depends on if the conquering army likes to read.
…that once were urgent and necessary for an orderly world and now were buried away, gathering dust and of no use to anyone.
You–cannot ever be certain of those you love–that they will not hurt you, even loving you. But to make me certain to love you, will be to take away any love I might give you freely.
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 wanting more of him than that.
A net of words, he said at last, is more powerful than a net of rope.
Words, he decided, were inadequate at best, impossible at worst. They meant too many things. Or they meant nothing at all.
What are the thorns really telling her? It’s why she won’t let us see them, why she clings to them–or they cling to her–as though she got herself buried in a bramble thicket and she can’t get out and we can’t get in to free her.
I need you to forgive me. And then perhaps I can begin to forgive myself. There is no one but you who can do that either.
That’s the beginning of magic. Let your imagination run and follow it.
Be patient, as you must always be patient with new pale seeds buried in the dark ground. When you are stronger, you can begin to think again. But now is the time to feel.
I don’t teach lies, but I do not teach all I know is true.