If you're too happy about anything, fate usually gives you a good sock in the jaw and knocks you down.
Stories are like children. They grow in their own way.
Believing takes practice.
It's hard to let go anything we love. We live in a world which teaches us to clutch. But when we clutch we're left with a fistful of ashes.
Nothing important is completely explicable.
What can we give a child when there is nothing left?