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...

I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social lies.

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

Without stories, we are incomplete.

The burning point of paper was the moment where I knew that I would have to remember this. Because people would have to remember books, if other people burn them or forget them. We will commit them to memory. We will be come them. We become authors. We become their books.

I think that there should have been some nice wumpires,' said my sister, wistfully. 'Nice, handsome, misunderstood wumpires.'There were not,' said my father.