All stories are about wolves. All worth repeating, that is. Anything else is sentimental drivel.

Another belief of mine; that everyone else my age is an adult, whereas I am merely in disguise.

The responsible treatment of this particular Ring of Power is not necessarily to toss it into the Cracks of Doom. But we have to come up with something rather quickly, or what we'll get is the Land of Mordor.

But I began then to think of time as having a shape, something you could see, like a series of liquid transparencies, one laid on top of another.

Repeat reading for me shares a few things with hot-water bottles and thumbsucking: comfort, familiarity, the recurrence of the expected.

Why can't I believe? she asked the darkness. Behind her eyelids she saw an animal. It was golden colour, with gentle green eyes and canine teeth, and curly wool instead of fur. It opened its mouth, but it did not speak. Instead, it yawned.It gazed at her. She gazed at it. "You are the effect of a carefully calibrated blend of plant toxins," she told it.Then she fell asleep.

I am rather saddened at the end of a book. I think most writers find this. It's like a friend departing on a voyage.