Fiction is the truth inside the lie.
Only enemies speak the truth; friends and lovers lie endlessly, caught in the web of duty.
I felt lonely and content at the same time. I believe that is a rare kind of happiness.
A person can go along quite awhile if they get a good day every once and again.
Words have weight.
Things conceived by minds and made by hands can never be quite the same, even if they try their best to be identical, because they're never the same from day to day or even moment to moment.
Some part of me knew from the first that what I wanted was not reality but myth.
He was in that mostly empty-headed state of grace which is sometimes such fertile soil ; it's the ground from which our brightest dreams and biggest ideas (both good and spectacularly bad) suddenly burst forth, often full-blown.
...he was after all, a novelist...and a novelist was simply a fellow who got paid to tell lies. The bigger the lies, the better the pay.
Wanting more is just a recipe for heartache.
The reason authors almost always put a dedication on a book is, because their selfishness even horrifies themselves in the end.
Kids, the fiction is the truth inside the lie, and the truth of this fiction is simple enough: the magic exists.