Work and pray, live on hay, youll get pie in the sky when you die.

We'll have freedom, love and health/When the grand red flag is flying, In the Workers' Commonwealth.

Gold don't come off. What's good stays good no matter how much of a beating it takes.

... people made the imaginary real all the time: taking the music they heard in their head and recording it, seeing a house in their imagination and building it. Fantasy was always only a reality waiting to be switched on.

All the world is made of music. We are all strings on a lyre. We resonate. We sing together.

I remind myself that no one day of writing matters all that much. A story is built somewhat like a stalactite - one little drip of mud and grit at a time.

If you didn't have me to rake you over the coals now and then, there wouldn't be any fire in your life at all.