So she listened hard. And she began to evolve, because stories work their magic that way. They build conviction and erode conviction in equal measure.

She is no longer I, she is too long ago, she is only she.

The nature of the world is to be calm, and enhance and support life, and evil is an absence of the inclination of matter to be at peace.

No one survives in times of war unless they make war their home. How did I get so old and wise, but for welcoming war into my house and making friends with him? Better to befriend the enemy and hang on. Something worse might come along, which might be amusing or might not.

Animals are born who they are, accept it, and that is that. They live with greater peace than people do.

Not an ugly color, Nanny thought. Just not a human color.

That's the real power of art, I think. Not to chide but to provoke challenge. Otherwise why bother?