There's a great fear of the imagination. It's a dangerous thing. It's out of control, it's subversive.

Readers, after all, are making the world with you. You give them the materials, but it's the readers who build that world in their own minds.

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.

A person who believes, as she did, that things fit: that there is a whole of which one is a part, and that in being a part one is whole: such a person has no desire whatever, at any time, to play God. Only those who have denied their being yearn to play at it.

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

If your voice is heard by more people because you've earned some kind of name and fame, your silence on an issue of urgent moral importance is even more of a betrayal. Privilege is obligation.

The end justifies the means. But what if there never is an end? All we have is means.