If one did not have at least a little luck, one would never survive childhood. But luck can be spent, like money; and lost, like a memory; and wasted, like a life.

A book is a door, you know. Always and forever. A book is a door into another place and another heart and another world.

Because I’m a cat. A big one, the Panther of Rough Storms, in fact. But still a cat. If there’s a saucer of milk to spill, I’d rather spill it than let it lie. If my mistress grows absent-minded and leaves a ball of yarn about, I’ll bat it between my paws, and unravel it. Because it’s fun. Because it’s what cats do best.

You cannot escape where you come from, September. Some part of it remains inside you always, like the slender white heart in the center of the thickest onion.

I am selfish. I am cruel. My mate cannot be less than I.

When the world changes, it stashes us away where we can't make it run the other way again.

And it's the wonders I'm after, even if I have to bleed for them.