But even in the schoolyard I'd been aware of that silence, that reserve in him, as though he'd been raised by foxes and language was his second language.

[Imagination] must be visited constantly, or else it begins to become restless and emit strange bellows at embarrassing moments; ignoring it only makes it grow larger and noisier.

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

I don't teach lies, but I do not teach all I know is true.

Imagination is the golden-eyed monster that never sleeps. It must be fed; it cannot be ignored.

Love and anger are like land and sea: They meet at many different places.

What?" It was a good word. Like a rock in a river, sticking up to let you land on it, so you could make your way across the flow.