The odd thing about people who had many books was how they always wanted more.

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.

Words, he decided, were inadequate at best, impossible at worst. They meant too many things. Or they meant nothing at all.

The odd thing about people who had many books was how they always wanted more.

Peace, tremulous, unexpected, sent a taproot out of nowhere into Morgan's heart.

Night is not something to endure until dawn. It is an element, like wind or fire. Darkness is its own kingdom; it moves to its own laws, and many living things dwell in it.

All I wanted, even when I hated you most, was some poor, barren, parched excuse to love you. But you only gave me riddles.