For it must be very lonely being dead.

There was no single moment when I thought, Aha! What a great idea! Rather there was a slow and gradual accumulation of numerous small ideas.

Once upon a time there was a fairy godmother, but the rest of the time there was none. This story is about one of those other times.

Reading can be dangerous.

My gripe is not with lovers of the truth but with truth herself. What succor, what consolation is there in truth, compared to a story? What good is truth, at midnight, in the dark, when the wind is roaring like a bear in the chimney? When the lightning strikes shadows on the bedroom wall and the rain taps at the window with its long fingernails? No. When fear and cold make a statue of you in your bed, don't expect hard-boned and fleshless truth to come running to your aid. What you need are the plump comforts of a story. The soothing, rocking safety of a lie.

Sometimes you can know things. Things about yourself. Things from before you can remember.

There is something about words. In expert hands, manipulated deftly, they take you prisoner.