What man would dare believe that all he planned might come to pass?

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.

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.

In this world, where we find ourselves, we need compassion more than anything, I think, or we are all alone.

The deeds of men, as footprints in the desert. Nothing under the circling moons is fated to last. Even the sun goes down.

Fantasy is, at its best, the purest access to storytelling that we have. It universalizes a tale, it evokes wonder and timeless narrative power, it touches upon inner journeys, it illuminates our collective and individual pasts, throws a focus beam on the present day, and presages the dangers and promises of the future.

I have always argued, in a good novel, interesting things happen to interesting people.