What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?

This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children's eyes. From the western half of the sky the sun was shying little golden disks at the sea--if you gazed intently enough you could see them skip from wave tip to wave tip until they joined a broad collar of golden coin that was collecting half a mile out and would eventually be a dazzling sunset.

i'm in a muddle about a lot of things -- i've just discovered that i've a mind, and i'm starting to read" "read what?" "everything. i have to pick and choose, of course, but mostly things that make me think.

You're a slave, a bound helpless slave to one thing in the world, your imagination.

They were smiling at each other as if this was the beginning of the world.

If you try to create a type, you may end with nothing. If you do a good job of creating an individual, you may succeed at creating a type.

Strange children should smile at each other and say, "Let's play.