The ideas aren't that important. Really they aren't. Everyone's got an idea for a book, a movie, a story, a TV series.
Spiders' webs only have to be large enough to catch flies.' Coraline.
I could be buried a hundred miles underground and I would know where you are.
Talk talk talk. This country would get along much better if people learned how to suffer in silence.
Nobody is ever given more to shoulder than he or she can bear.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters in it, human and otherwise, are imaginary, excepting only certain of the fairy folk, whom it might be unwise to offend by casting doubts on their existence. Or lack thereof.
We stumble, but we don't fall, and we pick ourselves up and we keep walking -- walking on a road that is built from the bodies and the dreams of those who have gone before us.
I only met Mad Sweeney twice, alive," he said. "The first time I thought he was a world-class jerk with the devil in him. The second time I thought he was a major fuckup and I gave him the money to kill himself. He showed me a coin trick I don't remember how to do, gave me some bruises, and claimed he was a leprechaun. Rest in peace, Mad Sweeney.
I am sorry. I lost something there. Like a path I was walking that dead-ended, and now I am alone and lost in the forest, and I am here and I do not know where here is any more.
We write our names in the sand, and then the waves roll in and wash them away.
The rain redoubled, and a sudden flash of lightning burned the world into existence all around them: every gray rock in the drystone wall, every blade of grass, every puddle and every tree was perfectly illuminated, and then swallowed by a deeper darkness, leaving after-images on Shadow's night-blinded eyes.
And Jessica saw in Richard an enormous amount of potential, which, properly harnessed by the right woman, would have made him the perfect matrimonial accessory.
In November I received a ransom note telling me exactly what to do if ever I wished to see my uncle Theobald alive again. I do not have an Uncle Theobald, but I wore a pink carnation in my buttonhole and ate nothing but salads for the entire month anyway. In.
Scuse me, said a small and hairy voice in his ear, but would you mind dreamin' a bit quieter? Your dreams is spillin' over into my dreams, and if there's one thing I've never been doin' with, it's dates. William the Conker, ten sixty-six, that's as far as I go, and I'd swap that for a dancing mouse.
They could not truly look dead, because they did not ever look alive.
I believe that antibacterial soap is destroying our resistance to dirt and disease so that one day we'll all be wiped out by the common cold.
There's an expression, deja vu, that means that you feel like you've been somewhere before, that you've somehow already dreamed it or experienced it in your mind.
It is not that I was credulous, simply that I belived in all things dark and dangerous. It was part of my young creed that the night was full of ghosts and witches, hungry and flapping and dressed completely in black.
We wrapped our dreams in words and patterned the words so that they would live forever, unforgettable.
Mr. Vandemar showed them his teeth, demonstrating his sunny and delightful disposition. It was unquestionably the most horrible thing Richard had ever seen.
If you have something specific and visible to fear, rather than something that could be anything, it is easier.
Most books I write because I realize there's a book sized hole in the universe and I want to fill it.
She shrugged. It doesn't matter to Jerusalem, she said. The people come. The people believe. Then they kill each other, to prove that God loves them.
You were her way here, and it's a dangerous thing to be a door.
Not needing the money puts me in a magical place because I can say no. I like the idea of having good movies made or having no movies made.
She smiled at us both, brightly. She really was pretty, for a grown-up, but when you are seven, beauty is an abstraction, not an imperative.
Not forever-after, for Time, the thief, eventually takes all things into his dusty storehouse.
Richard felt oddly proud. He had proved himself in the ordeal. He was One of Them. He would Go, and he would Bring Back Food. He puffed out his chest.
The man in the dark suit sips his Laphroaig and water, savoring the marshy taste, the body-in-the-bog quality of the whisky.
The cat wrinkled its nose and managed to look unimpressed. ‘Calling cats,' it confided, ‘tends to be a rather overrated activity. Might as well call a whirlwind.
But what the hell do I know? I'm an agnostic episcopalian with a day pass to a Hindu heaven.
Those that men call Werewolves or Lycanthropes call themselves the Hounds of God, as they claim their transformation is a gift from their creator, and they repay the gift with their tenacity, for they will pursue an evildoer to the very gates of Hell.
Why do they blame me for all their little failings? They use my name as if I spent my entire days sitting on their shoulders, forcing them to commit acts they would otherwise find repulsive. 'The devil made me do it.' I have never made one of them do anything. Never. They live their own tiny lives. I do not live their lives for them.
We've had our ups and downs since then, but that's what families have, ups and downs.