Knowledge is currency here….

I’d rather be a freak than a clone.

A man may plant a tree for a number of reasons. Perhaps he likes trees. Perhaps he wants shelter. Or perhaps he knows that someday he may need the firewood.

But I rather thought–I mean, I heard you’d killed Balder the Fair.””I never did,” snapped Loki crossly. “Well, no one ever proved I did. What happened to the presumption of innocence? Besides, he was supposed...

Was it my fault that I got out of hand?–Loki

This isn’t the first time the world has come to an end, and it won’t be the last either.

For a time, then, we stay. For a time. Till the changes.

Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

You seem to know a lot about it,” she said. “And you do subtleties.””Yeah. Like I’ve always wanted to destroy the Nine Worlds while committing suicide.””Well, there’s no need to be rude,” protested Sif.

Children are knives, my mother once said. They don’t mean to, but they cut. And yet we cling to them, don’t we, we clasp them until the blood flows.

Wild birds will kill exotic ones: the budgies and the lovebirds and the yellow canaries– escaped from their cages and hoping to get a taste of the sky — usually end up back on the...

There was something about total loyalty, uncritical devotion, endless patience, perpetual forgiveness and the general inability to believe that a loved one could ever do anything wrong that, frankly, just gave him the creeps.

I believe that being happy is the only important thing. Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or torturous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

I don’t pretend to know much about love, but that’s how great love comes to an end, not in the flames of passion, but in the silence of regret.

I’m only keeping in touch with you for the sake of the children. Way to look after our son, by the way. I let you have him for the weekend and before I know it...

I happen to know that history is nothing but a spin and metaphor, which is what all yarns are made up of, when you strip them down to the underlay. And what makes a hit...

The battle of good and evil reduced to a fat woman standing in front of a chocolate shop, saying, Will I? Won’t I? in pitiful indecision.

The dead know everything but they don’t give a damn.

Sometimes survival is the worst alternative there is

A named thing is a tamed thing.

Well, that’s history for you, folks. Unfair, untrue and for the most part written by folk who weren’t even there.

The past is an obdurate stranger that puts as many marks on us as we attempt to impose on it.

No point carrying useless ballast. It won’t change a thing.

Library-denigrators, pay heed: suggesting that the Internet is a viable substitute for libraries is like saying porn could replace your wife.

Gods? Don’t let that impress you. Anyone can be a god if they have enough worshippers. You don’t even have to have powers anymore. In my time I’ve seen theatre gods, gladiator gods, even storyteller...

There’s also a lot of random stuff about poetry, flowers and lute music, plus kissing and cuddling (lots of this), wearing similar outfits, talking incessantly about the current object of devotion, and generally losing one’s...

I could do with a bit more excess. From now on I’m going to be immoderate–and volatile–I shall enjoy loud music and lurid poetry. I shall be rampant.

Don’t worry so much about ‘not supposed to’.

And yet, it was still a performance. Odin and I both knew it. It was a kind of play, a dream of how things might have been if he and I had been capable of...

Love not often, but forever. It’s one of my mother’s sayings, and all my life it has been the story of my heart…. Love for my mother; love for my friends; the dark and complex...

Clones fit in. Freaks stand out. Ask me which one I prefer.

Even the damned can dream – infact, it’s part of their torment. To escape, even for a second or two, to forget reality and drift, only to be yanked back into the waking world like...

The dead know everything, but don’t give a damn.

A black cat crossed my path, and I stopped to dance around it widdershins and to sing the rhyme,Ou va-ti mistigri?Passe sans faire de mai ici.

As she grew older, Maddy discovered that she had disappointed almost everyone. An awkward girl with a sullen mouth, a curtain of hair, and a tendency to slouch, she had neither Mae’s sweet nature nor...

Our lives are like these things I make. Turn ’em, build ’em, bake ’em in fire. That’s what you’ve been, son. Baked and fired. But a pot don’t have the right to choose whether he...

Anything that can be dreamed is true.

We didn’t see anyone that day. We had no expectations. Everything was spontaneous. There wasn’t a single moment of stress. We laughed like crazy all afternoon – though I couldn’t tell you what about. And...

I can smell her perfume, something flowery, too strong in this enclosed darkness. I wonder if this is temptation. If so, I am stone.

But stories are worlds. New worlds for us to visit. In stories, we live forever.

This is something different again. A feeling of peace. The feeling you get when a recipe turns out perfectly right, a perfectly risen souffle, a flawless sauce hollandaise. It’s a feeling which tells me that...

Nat Parson says it’s the devil’s mark.””Nat Parson’s a gobshite.”Maddy was torn between a natural feeling of sacrilege and a deep admiration of anyone who dared call a parson ‘gobshite.

People grieve in different ways, some silently, some in anger, some in spite. Rarely does grief bring out the best in people, despite what local historians like to tell you.

I let it go. It’s like swimming against the current. It exhausts you. After a while, whoever you are, you just have to let go, and the river brings you home.

If you can still write in spite of the fact that you’re not getting paid, that nobody cares about what you’re writing, that nobody wants to publish it, that everybody is telling you to do...

Old habits never die. And when you’ve once been in the business of granting wishes, the impulse never quite leaves you

You priests. You’re all the same. You think fasting helps you think about God, when anyone who can cook would tell you that fasting just makes you think about food.

It’s never too late to come home,” he said, and pulled me gently, insistently toward him.”All you have to do…is stop moving away.

Somehow the anticipation of pain can be even more troubling, more a misery than the pain itself.

C’è un alone di stregoneria in tutta la cucina; la scelta degli ingredienti, il modo in cui vengono mescolati, grattugiati, sciolti, le infusioni e come si insaporiscono, le ricette prese da vecchi libri, gli utensili...