Only yesterday a young woman came to me wanting a trap set for a man with a sweet smile and lithe arms. She was a fool, not for wanting him, but for wanting more of him than that.

There are no simple words. I don't know why I thought I could hide anything behind language.

Men see what they are most afraid of.

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

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

Content, it dreams awake, and spins the fabric of tales. There is really nothing to be done with such imagery except to use it: in writing, in art.

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.