The old man began to sing. His voice was very lovely and obviously a part of something that the world had disposed of in its haste, evidence of a grander, kinder past.

Three things are required of you: the wishes you made when you first knew the breadth of this life; the contract you signed when you decided your wishes were not true or possible; and the exacting of the punishment you agreed to when you knew you would break the contract of your life.

If he acts, if he doesn't, it's meaningless. The whole thing goes forward. No one is important. No one at all.

We tire differently if we love or love not.

A book can just be a description of a stick being snapped in half. If the reader is brought to feel the plight of the stick, well, you can imagine what that would be like.

Not that believing such things has anything to do with whether they are true. You see that, don't you?

A person always has a chance to protest this or that.