I love fairy tales and feel very affected by them.

You cannot dispute the ridiculous. You cannot argue reasonably with evil.

I don't think I make much of a distinction between the 'real' and the 'fantastic.' They both seem to be threads in the same cloth as far as I'm concerned.

You can be betrayed in your sleep. The whole world can tilt while you're dreaming of butterflies.

The moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep.

What you dream, you can grow. Someone told me that, but I didn't believe it. I said I had nothing and that people with nothing are unable to dream. But I was wrong.

People hide their truest nature. I understood that; I even applauded it. What sort of world would it be if people bled all over the sidewalks, if they wept under trees, smacked whomever they despised, kissed strangers, revealed themselves?