Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.
I believe that being happy is the only important thing. Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or torturous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.
No point carrying useless ballast. It won’t change a thing.
The dead know everything but they don’t give a damn.
I could do with a bit more excess. From now on I’m going to be immoderate–and volatile–I shall enjoy loud music and lurid poetry. I shall be rampant.
A man may plant a tree for a number of reasons. Perhaps he likes trees. Perhaps he wants shelter. Or perhaps he knows that someday he may need the firewood.
Your wolf is eating that man. I thought you should know.
Well, that’s history for you, folks. Unfair, untrue and for the most part written by folk who weren’t even there.
Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows.
I’m only keeping in touch with you for the sake of the children. Way to look after our son, by the way. I let you have him for the weekend and before I know it he’s chained underground, awaiting Last Times and stinking of mead.
There was something about total loyalty, uncritical devotion, endless patience, perpetual forgiveness and the general inability to believe that a loved one could ever do anything wrong that, frankly, just gave him the creeps.
People grieve in different ways, some silently, some in anger, some in spite. Rarely does grief bring out the best in people, despite what local historians like to tell you.
The past is an obdurate stranger that puts as many marks on us as we attempt to impose on it.
A black cat crossed my path, and I stopped to dance around it widdershins and to sing the
The advantage of travel is that after a while you begin to realize that wherever you go, most people aren’t really all that much different.
For a time, then, we stay. For a time. Till the changes.
Clones fit in. Freaks stand out. Ask me which one I prefer.
The battle of good and evil reduced to a fat woman standing in front of a chocolate shop, saying, Will I? Won’t I? in pitiful indecision.
You priests. You’re all the same. You think fasting helps you think about God, when anyone who can cook would tell you that fasting just makes you think about food.
There’s also a lot of random stuff about poetry, flowers and lute music, plus kissing and cuddling (lots of this), wearing similar outfits, talking incessantly about the current object of devotion, and generally losing one’s faculties.
But stories are worlds. New worlds for us to visit. In stories, we live forever.
I let it go. It’s like swimming against the current. It exhausts you. After a while, whoever you are, you just have to let go, and the river brings you home.
It’s never too late to come home,” he said, and pulled me gently, insistently toward him.”All you have to do…is stop moving away.
I dreamt that I was old. And you – you were beside me.Forever young – in your hand, a cup of stars.
Sometimes survival is the worst alternative there is
I don’t pretend to know much about love, but that’s how great love comes to an end, not in the flames of passion, but in the silence of regret.
You seem to know a lot about it,” she said. “And you do subtleties.””Yeah. Like I’ve always wanted to destroy the Nine Worlds while committing suicide.””Well, there’s no need to be rude,” protested Sif.
Old habits never die. And when you’ve once been in the business of granting wishes, the impulse never quite leaves you
I happen to know that history is nothing but a spin and metaphor, which is what all yarns are made up of, when you strip them down to the underlay. And what makes a hit or a myth, of course, is how that story is told, and by whom.
Library-denigrators, pay heed: suggesting that the Internet is a viable substitute for libraries is like saying porn could replace your wife.
I dream a lot, in colour and in sound and scent. Quite a few of my stories have come from dreams.