As many have noted, the peril for authors is that our work space is too easily our play space.

There are no wrong turnings. Only paths we had not known we were meant to walk.

... everyone knew that all islands were worlds unto themselves, that to come to an island was to come to another world.

Weariness, sometimes more than anything else, can bring an end to war.

One man sees a riselka: his life forks there. Two men see a riselka: one of them shall die. Three men see a riselka: one is blessed, one forks, one shall die.

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.

But if you couldn't do everything, did that mean you did nothing?