I wish I knew what it was like, to find a place where I belong.

From the first she showed a curious sensitivity to what, I suppose, may be called the 'influences' of the place. She said it 'smelled' of ghosts and warlocks.

Go ahead and do it. It's much easier to apologize after something's been done than to get permission ahead of time.

Each day we do the best we can, and then tomorrow we try again!

Don't over edit. Don't second-guess yourself, or your ideas. Just write. Write every day, and keep at it. Don't get discouraged with the rejections. Tape them up on your office wall, to remind you of all the hard work you put in when you finally start getting published! It's all about persistence and passion. And have fun with it. Don't forget to have fun.

I need a friend and you seemed nicest. I think you and I can have more fun than those fake people on the other side.

Again burst out that chant McKay had heard as he had floated through the mists upon the lake. Now, as then, despite his opened ears, he could distinguish no words, but clearly he understood its mingled themes - the joy of Spring's awakening, rebirth, with the green life streaming singing up through every bough, swelling the buds, burgeoning with tender leaves the branches; the dance of the trees in the scented winds of Spring; the drums of the jubilant rain on leafy hoods; passion of Summer sun pouring its golden flood down upon the trees; the moon passing with stately step and slow and green hands stretching up to her and drawing from her breast milk of silver fire; riot of wild gay winds with their mad pipings and strummings; - soft interlacing of boughs, the kiss of amorous leaves - all these and more, much more that McKay could not understand for it dealt with hidden, secret things for which man has no images.("The Women Of The Woods")

“Pindar turned his thoughts back to time. What exactly was a moment? Was it the shortest span of time that could be represented by art? Perhaps moments were like sheets of gold leaf, hammered ever so thin, each leaf the locus for new thoughts. Time would then be a matter of layering, so that each second had a stack of moments on top, a baklava of time. Was this why his new Babylonian fragment had the word layers, then a gap where a piece was chipped out, then time? Or was that word branches rather than layers? Perhaps time wasn't flat after all. In that case, no sheaves like baklava, but filaments like kataifi, those nests made of shredded pastry drenched with syrup or honey. He saw the pastry threads as silver, now, each strand branching into new trees of silvery time growing out from each second, all of them inhabited by breath. For breathing had become necessary to his conception of time, inspiration and expiration. He needed the gods to breathe into him, breathe through him like a flute.”

“If you truly live, you will never truly die!”