There were days when he touched the tip of her nose and it was enough, a miracle of plenty.

I see all mythology as one tradition, a way of disseminating knowledge that must come to us in code so that we can live sanely with it, since some forms of knowledge are too dark, or too complex, to be plainly spoken. And so we have these weird (and also sometimes entertaining and surprising and heartening) tales that belong to all of us.

I dont have a style. I just try to write what the story demands.

It occurred to me that I was unhappy. And it didn’t feel so very terrible. No urgency, nothing. I could slip out of my life on a slow wave like this—it didn’t matter. I don’t have to be happy. All I have to do is hold on to something and wait.

Nobody ever warned me about mirrors, so for many years I was fond of them, and believed them to be trustworthy. . .

I do tend to feel more connected to dead writers, perhaps because they have finished their work.

Wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. The poem tells me it’s no big deal that I’m not like Snow. I can be another thing; I’m meant to be another thing.