But as the scissors snip-snapped through her hair and the razor shaved the rest, she realized with a sudden awful panic that she could no longer recall anything from the past. I cannot remember, she whispered to herself. I cannot remember. She's been shorn of memory as brutally as she'd been shorn of her hair, without permission, without reason... Gone, all gone, she thought again wildly, no longer even sure what was gone, what she was mourning.

A child who can love the oddities of a fantasy book cannot possibly be xenophobic as an adult. What is a different color, a different culture, a different tongue for a child who has already mastered Elvish, respected Puddleglums, or fallen under the spell of dark-skinned Ged?

What is a vow... but the mouth repeating what the heart has already promised?

A book is a wonderful present. Though it may grow worn, it will never grow old.

Take a step, breathe in the world, give it out again in story, poem, song, art.

How often is the passing of one storm only a prelude to another.

Wood may remain twenty years in the water, but it is still not a fish.