One expected growth, change; without it, the world was less, the well of inspiration dried up, the muses fled.

I think you're all mad. But that's part and parcel of being an artistic genius, isn't it?

There are people who take the heart out of you, and there are people who put it back.

I'm not Chinese. I thrive in interesting times.

Magic's never what you expect it to be, but it's often what you need.

But that's what we all are-just stories. We only exist by how people remember us, by the stories we make of our lives. Without the stories, we'd just fade away.

We're all made of stories. When they finally put us underground, the stories are what will go on. Not forever, perhaps, but for a time. It's a kind of immortality, I suppose, bounded by limits, it's true, but then so's everything.