It does not make sense. It cannot exist. It's impossible, and if it isn't impossible, it's irrelevant, and if it isn't either of those things, it's embarrassing.

Tell him, we are not devils but we have friends who are.

From what we are, spirit; from what we do, matter. Matter and spirit are one.

Then she was pressing her little proud broken self against his face, as close as she could get, and then they died.

A story, to me, has a particular sprite, like the angel of the spirit of that story - and it's my job to attend to what it wants to do. When I tell the story of Cinderella, the sprite does not want me to make it into an allegory of the fall of communism. The sprite would be unhappy if I did that.

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

The idea hovered and shimmered delicately, like a soap bubble, and she dared not even look at it directly in case it burst. But she was familiar with the way of ideas, and she let it shimmer, looking away, thinking about something else.