You pile of stones, you waste, you desolation, I'll stuff you with misery till it comes out of your eyes. I'll change your heart into green grass, and all you love into a sheep. I'll turn you into a bad poet with dreams.

It’s a rare man who is taken for what he truly is.

This creature is the Pooka. Pay no mind to the shape he wears, for he’s none of his own, and no soul either. Ware him ever, trust him never, but when the wind’s right he has his uses. Never forget that you will never know him. The Pooka’s mystery even to the Pooka.

Ravens bring things to people. We're like that. It's our nature. We don't like it.

What is plucked will grow again, What is slain lives on, What is stolen will remain-- What is gone is gone.

I know how to live here, I know how everything smells, and tastes, and is. What could I ever search for in the world, except this again?

It's really not so good to have time. Rush, scramble, desperation, this missed, that left behind, those others too big to fit into such a small space--that's the way life was meant to be. You're supposed to be too late for some things. Don't worry about it.