But you must stop playing among his ghosts -- it's stupid and dangerous and completely pointless. He's trying to lay them to rest here, not stir them up, and you seem eager to drag out all the sad old bones of his history and make them dance again. It's not nice, and it's not fair.
I thought of you with your hair silver as snow all through that cold, slow journey from Sirle. I felt you troubled deep within me, and there was no other place in the world I would rather have been than in the cold night riding to you. When you opened your gates to me, I was home.
I write fantasy because it's there. I have no other excuse for sitting down for several hours a day indulging my imagination. Daydreaming. Thinking up imaginary people, impossible places.
There are no simple words. I don't know why I thought I could hide anything behind language.
Content, it dreams awake, and spins the fabric of tales. There is really nothing to be done with such imagery except to use it: in writing, in art.
Here in Raine, I can walk with the sunlight on my face. I can speak to anyone who speaks to me. I can learn my daughter's language. I can be called the name I was given when I was born. Here I am no longer my own secret. Will you let me stay?
Love and anger are like land and sea: They meet at many different places.
Shall I add a man to my collection?
What?" It was a good word. Like a rock in a river, sticking up to let you land on it, so you could make your way across the flow.
Peace, tremulous, unexpected, sent a taproot out of nowhere into Morgan's heart.
But even in the schoolyard I'd been aware of that silence, that reserve in him, as though he'd been raised by foxes and language was his second language.
Only yesterday a young woman came to me wanting a trap set for a man with a sweet smile and lithe arms. She was a fool, not for wanting him, but for wanting more of him than that.
I do not want to choose which one of you I must love or hate. Here, I am free to do neither. I want no part of your bitterness.
...that once were urgent and necessary for an orderly world and now were buried away, gathering dust and of no use to anyone.
Research the imagination. It was as obsolete as the appendix in most adults, except for those in whom, like the appendix, it became inflamed for no reason.
Epics are never written about libraries. They exist on whim; it depends on if the conquering army likes to read.
All I wanted, even when I hated you most, was some poor, barren, parched excuse to love you. But you only gave me riddles.
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