Never trust the storyteller. Only trust the story.

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness.

Coraline wondered why so few of the adults she met made any sense.

People take on the shapes of the songs and the stories that surround them, especially if they don't have their own song.

I realized the other day that about the only author I genuinely read for pure pleasure is one of the worst authors in the world, a guy called Harry Stephen Keeler, a long dead American mystery writer. He was probably the greatest bad writer America ever produced.

It doesn't matter that I can't remember the details any longer: death happened to her. Death happens to all of us.

He shivered. His coat was thin, and it was obvious he would not get his kiss, which he found puzzling. The manly heroes of the penny dreadfuls and shilling novels never had these problems getting kissed.