As far as I'm concerned, the world is composed of stories. For architects, the world is composed of buildings, for actors the world is composed of theatres, or whatever... For me, the world is simply composed of stories, when I look, that's what I see.

There are some as are what they are. And there are some as aren't what they seem to be. And there are some as only seem to be what they seem to be.

Of course you don't believe in fairies. You're fifteen. You think I believed in fairies at fifteen? Took me until I was at least a hundred and forty. Hundred and fifty, maybe. Anyway, he wasn't a fairy. He was a librarian. All right?

They all do the same things. They may think their sins are original, but for the most part they are petty and repetitive.

An Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards.

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.

What do I do now?” “I don’t know. Fade away, perhaps. Or find another role.