Imagination is a great thing in long dull hours, but it's a real curse in a dark alley.

Eleven would have been the best time. Eleven is just about the best age for almost everything.

There was that special smell made up of paper, ink, and dust; the busy hush; the endless luxury of thousands of unread books. Best of all was the eager itch of anticipation as you went out the door with your arms loaded down with books.

We all invite our own devils, and we must exorcise our own.

Nothing's real unless you want it to be, and anything can be real if you want it to enough; so real doesn't really mean anything.

If you try to make your circle closed and exclusively yours, it never grows very much. Only a circle that has lots of room for anybody who needs it has enough spare space to hold any real magic.

Imagination is a great thing in long dull hours, but it's a real curse in a dark alley.