Part of the particular interest and beauty of science fiction and fantasy: writer and reader collaborate in world-making.

I am living in a nightmare, from which from time to time I wake in sleep.

What is love of one's country; is it hate of one's uncountry? Then it's not a good thing. Is it simply self-love? That's a good thing, but one musn't make a virtue of it, or a profession...Insofar as I love life, I love [my country], but that sort of love does not have a boundary-line of hate. And beyond that, I am ignorant, I hope.

The question is always the same with a dragon: will he talk with you or will he eat you?

Maybe when you meet the people you are supposed to meet you know it, without knowing it.

It is no secret. All power is one in source and end, I think. Years and distances, stars and candles, water and wind and wizardry, the craft in a man's hand and the wisdom in a tree's root: they all arise together. My name, and yours, and the true name of the sun, or a spring of water, or an unborn child, all are syllables of the great word that is very slowly spoken by the shining of the stars. There is no other power. No other name.

My imagination makes me human and makes me a fool; it gives me all the world, and exiles me from it.