Neil Gaiman

You don't get explanations in real life. You just get moments that are absolutely, utterly, inexplicably odd.

Really, he thought, if you couldn't trust a poet to offer sensible advice, who could you trust?

Richard began to understand darkness: darkness as something solid and real, so much more than a simple absence of light. He felt it touch his skin, questing, moving, exploring: gliding through his mind. It slipped into his lungs, behind his eyes, into his mouth...

Stories may well be lies, but they are good lies that say true things, and which can sometimes pay the rent.

Lettie shrugged. “Nobody actually looks like what they really are on the inside. You don’t. I don’t. People are much more complicated than that. It’s true of everybody.

Every lover is, in his heart, a madman, and, in his head, a minstrel.

Without stories, we are incomplete.

It always rains on the unloved-wet dreams-a fishing expedition-she kisses wyverns (the disneyland analogy)-dinner etiquette and chocolate lovers-desire swears by the first circle-'things are changing'-what can possibly go wrong?

Listen, gods die when they are forgotten. People too. But the land's still here. The good places, and the bad. The land isn't going anywhere. And neither am I.

Gods die. And when they truly die they are unmourned and unremembered. Ideas are more difficult to kill than people, but they can be killed, in the end.

Of course you don't believe in fairies. You're fifteen. You think I believed in fairies at fifteen? Took me until I was at least a hundred and forty. Hundred and fifty, maybe. Anyway, he wasn't a fairy. He was a librarian. All right?

The quickest way is sometimes the longest.