I don’t know if proud is the right word, but I am somebody who does not, on the whole, have the highest regard for my own stuff in that when I look all I get to see are the flaws.
Like some kind of particularly tenacious vampire the short story refuses to die, and seems at this point in time to be a wonderful length for our generation.
I believe that stories are incredibly important, possibly in ways we don’t understand, in allowing us to make sense of our lives, in allowing us to escape our lives, in giving us empathy and in creating the world that we live in.
The short story is still like the novel’s wayward younger brother, we know that it’s not respectable – but I think that can also add to the glory of it.
A library is a place that is a repository of information and gives every citizen equal access to it. That includes health information. And mental health information. It’s a community space. It’s a place of safety, a haven from the world.
When I started out, there were a lot of things I knew I couldn’t do, and a lot of things I only found out I couldn’t do by going and doing it. And no-one was watching, and nobody cared.
When I was a child, adults would tell me not to make things up, warning me of what would happen if I did. As far as I can tell so far, it seems to involve lots of foreign travel and not having to get up too early in the morning.
And if there’s a moral there, I don’t know what it is, save maybe that we should take our goodbyes whenever we can.
He couldn’t see why people made such a fuss about people eating their silly old fruit anyway, but life would be a lot less fun if they didn’t. And there was never an apple, in Adam’s opinion, that wasn’t worth the trouble you got into for eating it.
It is astonishing just how much of what we are can be tied to the beds we wake up in in the morning, and it is astonishing how fragile that can be.
To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due.
So many things to see, people to do.
She decides to make a list of the things that make her happy. She writes ‘plum-blossom’ at the top of a piece of paper. Then she stares at the paper, unable to think of anything else. Eventually it begins to get dark.
Whither thou goest...
What need, Dunstan wondered, could someone have of the storm-filled eggshells?
He had noticed that events were cowards: they didn’t occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.
I believe that anyone who claims to know what’s going on will lie about the little things too.
Not knowing everything is all that makes it OK, sometimes...
Stories are made up by people who make them up. If they work, they get retold. There’s the magic of it.
I mean, maybe I am crazy. I mean, maybe. But if this is all there is, then I don’t want to be sane.