I am infected with life and will die of it in time.

The moon was gone, but to the magician's eyes the unicorn was the moon, cold and white and very old, lighting his way to safety, or to madness.

He thought, or said, or sang, I did not know that I was so empty, to be so full.

But I'm always dreaming, even when I'm awake; it is never finished." -the Lady Amalthea, from The Last Unicorn

I always say perseverance is nine-tenths of any art — not that it's much help to be nine-tenths an artist, of course.

The tune was wailing and mournful, almost flagrantly so, and the total effect was of a heartbroken piccolo being parted forever from its bagpipe lover.

What use is magic if it can't save a unicorn?