I love taking things out of context and playing with them and chopping up rules.

If you should find yourself in a place that is indifferent to you and there is someone there that your spirit stretches to, then that person is kin.

You don’t return people’s smiles—it’s perfectly clear to you that people can smile and smile and still be villains.

In Narnia a girl might ring a bell in a deserted temple and feel the chime in her eyes, pure as the freeze that forces tears. Then when the sound dies out, the White Witch wakes. It was like, I want to touch you, and I can touch you, now what next, a dagger?

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

Imagine having a mother who worries that you read too much. The question is, what is it that's supposed to happen to people who read too much? How can you tell when someone's crossed the line.

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.