The man was hit in one eye by a stone, and that eye turned inward so that it looked into his mind, and he died of what he saw there

...that once were urgent and necessary for an orderly world and now were buried away, gathering dust and of no use to anyone.

I would be mute, beautiful, changless as the earth for you. I would be your memory, without age, always innocent, always waiting in the King's white house. I would do that for you and no other man inthe relm. But it would be a lie and I will do anything but lie to you - I swear that.

That's the beginning of magic. Let your imagination run and follow it.

What do you think love is - a thing to startle from the heart like a bird at every shout or blow? You can fly from me, high as you choose into your darkness, but you will see me always beneath you, no matter how far away, with my face turned to you. My heart is in your heart. I gave it to you with my name that night and you are its guardian, to treasure it, or let it whither and die. I do not understand you. I am angry with you. I am hurt and helpless, but nothing will fill the ache of the hollowness in me where your name would echo if I lost you.

Those who fear the imagination condemn it: something childish, they say, something monsterish, misbegotten. Not all of us dream awake. But those of us who do have no choice.

Love is an obsolete emotion, ranking in usefulness somewhere between earwigs and toe mold.