There's not much high and low culture any more: there's just mingling streams of art and what matters is whether it's good art or bad art.

Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles, able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way. Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkably difficult to kill.

Some things are too big to be seen; some emotions are too huge to be felt.

Sometimes big things happen, and they echo. Those echoes crash across worlds. They are the ripples in the fabric of things. Often they manifest as storms. Reality is a fragile thing, after all.

Eyes as black and as shiny as chips of obsidian stared back into his. They were eyes like black holes, letting nothing out, not even information.

I was not so old that I would deny my own senses.

Bod quite liked crows. He thought they were funny and he liked the way they helped to keep the graveyard tidy.