He stared up at the stars, and it seemed to him then that they were dancers, stately and graceful, performing a dance almost infinite in its complexity. He imagined he could see the very faces of the stars; pale, they were, and smiling gently, as if they had spent so much time above the world, watching the scrambling and the joy and the pain of the people below them, that they could not help being amused every time another little human believed itself the center of its world, as each of us does.

When I was young I was a fool. So wrap me up in dreams and death.

Adventures are all very well in their place, but there's a lot to be said for regular meals and freedom from pain.

Set your fantasies in the here and now and then, if challenged, claim to be writing Magical Realism.

Nobody's seen Jesus in years.

I am selfish, private and easily bored. Will this be a problem?

I always figure there are novels and short stories, and in those, I'm God. No one tells me what to do. I don't have to lose a page, or cut anything, it's just mine. Then there are other things where you're up against realities.