Long, dark, and lovely she had been, in those days before her mind broke and the parts scattered and she let them go.

The heart's in it then, spinning dreams, and torment is on the way. The heart makes dreams seem like ideas.

When I started to be a writer, I was not going to run the risk of boring you.

Fading light buttered the ridges until shadows licked them clean and they were lost to nightfall.

For a long time, I thought you could remain isolated and survive, and I didn't want to change that. But over the last three or four books, I've become more comfortable with the idea that I'm not really throwing anything away by being a bit more open about my books and life.

But I've been at writing long enough now to know that every three or four books I have to start a new direction.

The heart makes dreams seem like ideas.