It’s an odd thing, happiness. Some people take happiness from gold. Or black pearls. And some of us, far more fortunate, take their happiness from periwinkles.

I write fantasy because it's there. I have no other excuse for sitting down for several hours a day indulging my imagination. Daydreaming. Thinking up imaginary people, impossible places.

Shall I add a man to my collection?

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.

There was the gaudy patch of sunflowers beside the west gate of the palace of the Prince of Ombria, that did nothing all day long but turn their golden-haired, thousand-eyed faces to follow the sun.

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