Are not all loves secretly the same? A hundred flowers sprung from a single root.

I began to feel lighthearted. Don't ever do that; it tempts some dark and evil force abroad in the universe.

I also love Disney, and will defend doing so, because there's so much in those films and I don't care if it's stereotyped.

She looked, and a scarlet butterfly flew away from her, away down the length of the tower, and then another, another, an unraveling scarf of butterflies like winged blood.

Writers tell stories better, because they've had more practice, but everyone has a book in them. Yes, that old cliche.

I held out my book. It was precious to me, as were all the things I'd written; even where I despised their inadequacy there was not one I would disown. Each tore its way from my entrails. Each had shortened my life, killed me with its own special little death.

How massively the mountains stand, while low to the ground the sand blows. The sand blows on and on. And then there are no mountains, none at all, the sand has kissed and whispered them away. And still, the sand blows on.