I took delight in hurling books across the room if I knew I would not be reading the second chapter. Then I’d go and pick them up again, because they are books, after all, and we are not savages.

Nobody will ever hurt her. She’ll just smile her faint vague wonderful smile and walk away.

Adult helplessness destroys children. Or it forces them to become tiny adults of their own.

For some folks death is release, and for others death is an abomination, a terrible thing. But in the end, I'm there for all of them.

Imagine a mosaic picture of a house in the country: lots of red and blue and yellow and black and brown and white and a dozen different shades of green tiles which make a beautiful picture if you stand back far enough. All the little red squares are true - true things, true places, true feelings. But the red squares aren't the picture. All the rest of it is lies and stories, often within the same sentence.

I wish being a beekeeper, which I am, gave you a free pass on the carbon footprint, but it doesn't.

I don't know if any single book made me want to write. C.S. Lewis was the first writer to make me aware that somebody was writing the book I was reading - these wonderful parenthetical asides to the reader.