Dreams are stories made by and for the dreamer.

Memory changes as a person matures.

The faculty of memory cannot be separated from the imagination. They go hand in hand. To one degree or another, we all invent our personal pasts. And for most of us those pasts are built from emotionally colored memories.

The fictive is an emormous territory it turns out, its boundaries vague, and there is little certainty about where it begins and ends.

Great books are the ones that are urgent, life-changing, the ones that crack open the reader’s skull and heart.

Reading is a private pursuit; one that takes place behind closed doors.

Memory offers up its gifts only when jogged by something in the present. It isn't a storehouse of fixed images and words, but a dynamic associative network in the brain that is never quiet and is subject to revision each time we retrieve an old picture or old words.