Silence was not the absence of sound but was itself a sound that could be loud or soft, soothing or disturbing, complex or simple.

To write and not tell the truth? That would be death for any writer. But more, it would be death to the imagination. And if the imagination dies, what would happen to the souls of children?

Silence was not the absence of sound but was itself a sound that could be loud or soft, soothing or disturbing, complex or simple.

If I canot know your name, may I light a lamp so I can see your face?' If you sould ever see my face, you will lose me forever.' Why?' Psyche wanted to know. 'Are you ugly? Are you afraid I won't love you if I see your face?' Perhaps I am afraid that if you see my face, it will be THAT that you will love and not me.' I understand, believe me. I know what that feels like.

I'm tired of thinking and I'm really tired of Feeling. —Jenna Richards

Goodness was not a trait you acquired; it was a value you practiced when you were on the verge of doing evil.

The failure of modern living is the failure of the imagination...Literature is the royal road that enables us to enter the realm of the imagination.