Somewhere to the eastward a wolf howled; lightly, questioningly. I knew the voice, for I had heard it many times before. It was George, sounding the wasteland for an echo from the missing members of his family. But for me it was a voice which spoke of the lost world which once was ours before we chose the alien role; a world which I had glimpsed and almost entered... only to be excluded, at the end, by my own self.

I’ll braid you one.

The frozen fish were later put in deep holes in the moss and covered over to keep until they were needed.

The new plan looked like the answer.

I write every day. I’m always in the process of writing my last book, until the next one.

Then he jumped up and shouted.

I have to go on writing because I wouldn’t be able to go on without writing. It is the only function that works for me, and without that function, I would die.

Don’t make a big distinction between fiction and non-fiction. These are arbitrary distinctions...

Jamie was quick to see a use for the ice sheet.

There was no other wanderer on that road, yet I was not alone, for his tracks went with me, each pawprint as familiar as the print of my own hand. I followed them, and I knew each thing that he had done, each move that he had made, each thought that had been his; for so it is with two who live one life together.