Seasons didn’t come behind the nicotine-stained walls of Mountain City’s prison, so Harm always imagined it spring – the locust trees clustered with shaggy white blooms, the wet woods flecked with bloodroot, and wild roses and honeysuckle flashing white among the chestnuts on the mountainsides...

Wild steep mountains floating in a haze of cloud... a sea of green trees swallowing the hills and valleys, and curling around the trails and rivers, with the wind in the leaves as its tide.

Oh, son, hardly anybody wants to leave. These mountains are more than just a place for folks around here.

Machines seem to sense that I am afraid of them. It makes them hostile.

Domestic rabbits don’t have the sense that God promised animal crackers.

The most momentous events in life – baptisms, weddings, and funerals – don’t seem to take much time, but the effects of them bind up the whole of your existence.

Some people are born to fit the times.

All babies are incoherent, but they grow up. That is the principle difference between an infant and a poet.

I wonder which is worse-the death, not knowing what comes after, or the wedding, when you think you know, but you’re wrong.

Half magic is no magic at all.