I've learned never to try and force words to come.

My attitude is that if anybody of any age wants to read a book, let them, but I do think that no child would want to read 'Boneland.'

He cut the veil of the rock; the hooves clattered the bellowing waters below him in the dark. The lamp brought the moon from the blade, and the blade the bull from the rock. The ice rang.

You and I and everyone else are a bit like turtles: we only make progress when we stick our necks out a little.

The prince went straight to the king of dragons, who took him on his back to the distant mountain, and with his fire he split the crystal, and the red fox that had shimmered like a ruby in its clear heart ran out. But the king of eagles pounced on it from the sky, and ripped the fur a darker red. Up sprang the raven, and fled on the wind, but the king of falcons closed with it, and the talons met in the raven’s heart.

The walls were shedding their texture and taking another in the pouncing feathers. Gwyn.

I wanted us to have a holiday, not a ruddy breakdown.

Oh, drop dead, you miserable cow.

The more I learn, the more I am convinced that there are no original stories. On several occasions I have “invented” an incident, and then come across it in an obscure fragment of Hebridean lore, orally collected, and privately printed, a hundred years ago.

That man’s gaga,” said Roger when they were out of hearing. “He’s so far gone he’s coming back.