The first book is the book you have to write to get back at your parents; the book you always had in you. Once you get that out of your way, you can start writing books.

[L]et my reader who is puzzled by my awkward explanations close his eyes for no more than two minutes, and see if he does not find himself suddenly not a compact human being at all, but only a consciousness on a sea of sound and touch . . .

A pretty sight, a lady with a book.

I really think I shall commence chapter forty-four," he said, patting his hands together. "I shall commence, I think, with a slight exaggeration and go on from there into an outright lie. Constance, my dear?" "Yes, Uncle Julian?" "I am going to say that my wife was a beautiful woman.

Today my winged horse is coming and I am carrying you off to the moon and on the moon we will eat rose petals.

I was pretending that I did not speak their language; on the moon we spoke a soft, liquid tongue, and sang in the starlight, looking down on the dead dried world.

Poor strangers, they have so much to be afraid of.