Why do I have this imagination? It’s the only one I’ve got!
When you dream, sometimes you remember. When you wake, you always forget.
Identity can be so gelatinous sometimes.
I think you’re doing better than you were the last time we saw you. You’re growing a new heart, for a start.
Start telling the stories that only you can tell.
All your tomorrows start here.
Fiction is the lie that tells the truth, after all.
Discontent is a good thing: discontented people can modify and improve their worlds, leave them better, leave them different.
For me, closing libraries is the equivalent of eating your seed corn to save a little money.
A disturbing novel about dreams and wishes, a nightmarish distaff monkey’s paw of a book that it’s impossible to forget. Lisa Tuttle remains our preeminent chronicler of family madness and desire.
Tools, of course, can be the subtlest of traps.
Sometimes an old idea gets relegated to the back of the line in the mad delight of a new idea, one you’ve never had before, and that you write fast in the thrill of the new. No rules. Just stories, and you tell as many of them as you can.
I found English to be a sort of Thomas Hardy aversion therapy.
Everybody who has ever read Sandman knows exactly what the Sandman looks like, which is more than anybody who has ever read The Catcher in the Rye can say about Holden Caufield.
Goodnight world. While I sleep, I hope you’ll all continue to do whatever it is you do. Unless you murder sleeping authors. Don’t do that.
London grew into something huge and contradictory. It was a good place, and a fine city, but there is a price to be paid for all good places, and a price that all good places have to pay.
The really important thing to be was yourself, just as hard as you could.
Children, as I have said, use back ways and hidden paths, while adults take roads and official paths.
Style is made up of whatever an author can’t avoid doing.
Classic authors should be older than I am, and wiser, and on-top of all their deadlines.