Marisa! Marisa!” The cry was torn from Lord Asriel, and with the snow leopard beside her, with a roaring in her ears, Lyra’s mother stood and found her footing and leapt with all her heart, to hurl herself against the angel and her daemon and her dying lover, and seize those beating wings, and bear them all down together into the abyss.

But I know that all the things I do know are very small compared with the things that I don't know.

Lyra learns to her great cost that fantasy isn’t enough. She has been lying all her life, telling stories to people, making up fantasies, and suddenly she comes to a point where that’s not enough. All she can do is tell the truth. She tells the truth about her childhood, about the experiences she had in Oxford, and that is what saves her. True experience, not fantasy - reality, not lies - is what saves us in the end.

We are all subject to the fates. But we must act as if we are not, or die of despair.

Life is hard . . . but we cling to it all the same

But we can trust him Roger, I swear," she said with a final effort,"Because he's Will.

Tell them stories. They need the truth you must tell them true stories, and everything will be well, just tell them stories.