Nothing important is completely explicable.

If it's bad art, it's bad religion, no matter how pious the subject.

With each book I write, I become more and more convinced that the books have a life of their own, quite apart from me.

Dare I? Of course I don't. But I'm going to anyhow because I have no choice.

When I have something to say that I think will be too difficult for adults, I write it in a book for children. Children are excited by new ideas; they have not yet closed the doors and windows of their imaginations. Provided the story is good... nothing is too difficult for children.

Just write a little bit every day. Even if it's for only half an hour — write, write, write.

A burst of harmony so brilliant that it almost overwhelmed them surrounded Meg, the cherubim, Calvin, and Mr. Jenkins. But after a moment of breathlessness, Meg was able to open herself to the song of the farae, these strange creatures who were Deepened, rooted, yet never seperated from each other, no matter how great the distance. We are the song of the universe. We sing with the angelic host. We are musicians. The farae and the stars are the singers. Our song orders the rhythm of creation.