Without stories, we are incomplete.

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

The quickest way is sometimes the longest.

The autumn twilight turned into deep and early night as they walked. Tristran could smell the distant winter on the air--a mixture of night-mist and crisp darkness and the tang of fallen leaves.

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

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...