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.

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

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

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

Shall I add a man to my collection?

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

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.