One thing you who had secure or happy childhoods should understand about those of us who did not. We who control our feelings, who avoid conflicts at all costs, or seem to seek them. Who are hypersensitive, self-critical, compulsive, workaholic, and above all survivors. We are not that way from perversity, and we cannot just relax and let it go. We’ve learned to cope in ways you never had to.

People talk-- they sneer at escapism. Well, there are those of us who need it.

Happy children do not seem to grow up to be writers.

If the fiercest conglomerate monsters had souls, with all that implied, who could condemn them as evil?

Dor woke again as dawn came. The sun had somehow gotten around to the east, where the land was, and dried off so that it could shine again.

I wish my readers took less of my time - about a third of my working time goes to them - but I love and need them all.

Adults had the notion that juveniles needed to suffer. Only when they had suffered enough to wipe out most of their naturally joyous spirits and innocence were they staid enough to be considered mature. An adult was essentially a broken-down child.