Some writers later, describing the events of that night and day, wrote that Wan'yen of the Altai had seen a spirit-dragon of the river and become afraid. Writers do that sort of thing. They like dragons in their tales.

There was some sadness in how that could happen, falling out of love with something that had shaped you. Or even people who had.

Ice is for death and endings.

The world could bring you poison in a jewelled cup, or surprising gifts. Sometimes you didn't know which of them it was.

It was different, though, knowing something in your thoughts and then hearing it confirmed, made real, planted in the world like a tree

When I was 18 years old, in a more innocent time, my first backpacking trip through Europe, I sneaked into the Temple of Saturn in the Roman Forum after nightfall and spent several hours in there avoiding the guards patrolling.

After a while, you start to realize that you should write a book you would want to read. I try to write a book I would enjoy.