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.

One plus one equals both.

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

The world rarely shrieks its meaning at you. It whispers, in private languages and obscure modalities, in arcane and quixotic imagery, through symbol systems in which every element has multiple meanings determined by juxtaposition.

She wasn't afraid of doing good or of resisting evil. She was merely afraid she might not be able to tell the difference.

That was such a wonderful time, even in its strangeness and sadness-and life isn't the same now. It's wonderful, but it isn't the same.

I'm not a writer because I want to make money. I'm a writer because I'm a very slow thinker, but I do care about thinking, and the only way I know how to think with any kind of finesse is by telling stories.