Winter started today. The sky turned grey and the snow began to fall and it did not stop falling untill well after dark.
I do not remember ever asking any of the other children in my class at school why they had not come to my party. I did not need to ask them. They were not my friends, after all. They were just the people I went to school with.
Tramps and vagabonds have marks they make on gateposts and trees and doors, letting others of their kind know a little about the people who live at the houses and farms they pass on their travels. I think cats must leave similar signs; how else to explain the cats who turn up at our door through the year, hungry and flea-ridden and abandoned?
People imagine, and people believe: and it is that belief, that rock-solid belief, that makes things happen.
Night is happening. All the nightmares that have come out when the sun goes down, since the cave times, when we huddled together in fear for safety and for warmth, are happening.
All fire burns, little baby. You’ll learn.
There was nothing to scare me but shadows, and the shadows were not even properly visible when I looked at them directly.
Good a reason for writing as I know: releasing demons, letting them fly.
The rain redoubled, and a sudden flash of lightning burned the world into existence all around them: every gray rock in the drystone wall, every blade of grass, every puddle and every tree was perfectly illuminated, and then swallowed by a deeper darkness, leaving after-images on Shadow’s night-blinded eyes.
Not really,” said Shadow. “But I’m not dead yet.” “Huh?” “Call no man happy until he is dead. Herodotus.” Mr. Nancy raised a white eyebrow, and he said, “I’m not dead yet, and, mostly because I’m not dead yet, I’m happy as a clamboy.” “The Herodotus thing. It doesn’t mean that the dead are happy,” said Shadow. “It means that you can’t judge the shape of someone’s life until it’s over and done.
Even the oldest stories are new to somebody...
Are you sure about this?” he asked. Wednesday snorted. “Sure as eggs is eggs,” he said. “As the turkey farmer said when he hatched his first turtle.
I was not happy as a child, although from time to time I was content.
Behind every Chesterton sentence there was someone painting with words, and it seemed to me that at the end of any particularly good sentence or any perfectly-put paradox, you could hear the author, somewhere behind the scenes, giggling with delight.
Jameson Irish whiskey: a twenty-dollar ticket out of this place.
I don’t think even Gran could take it out of you without hurting your heart. And you need your heart.
And in our room, we made love like flames–opening, blending, burning. We made love like animals, like gods, like dreams. Was it worth waiting for? Gods, yes. It was worth worlds, that night, worth souls, worth eternity.
In Jotunheim, the home of the giants, is Mimir’s well. It bubbles up from deep in the ground, and it feeds Yggdrasil, the world-tree. Mimir, the wise one, the guardian of memory, knows many things. His well is wisdom, and when the world was young he would drink every morning from the well, by dipping the horn known as the Gjallerhorn into the water and draining it.
She paused, there in the highest of the highlands, where the summer winds have winter on their breath, where they howl and whip and slash the air like knives.
First time takes forever, and then ever after it’s over in a flash?