He..." Richard began. "The marquis. Well, you know, to be honest, he seems a little bit dodgy to me." Door stopped. The steps dead-ended in a rough brick wall. "Mm," she agreed. "He's a little bit dodgy in the same way that rats are a little bit covered in fur.

In ten years time I’ll be… (dead) sixty.

Human beings do not relate to written words in the same way that they will relate to spoken words. They do not relate to music in the same way that they do to pictures. It's all different parts of our head, different parts of our minds processing this.

If people are standing up there saying, my football team just won with help from God, then obviously God just pissed over the other team.

This is a work of fiction. Still, given an infinite number of possible worlds, it must be true on one of them. And if a story set in an infinite number of possible worlds is true in one of them, then it must be true in all of them. So maybe, it's not as fictional as we think.

If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends.

Fiction takes us to places that we would never otherwise go, and puts us behind eyes that are not our own.