Men who fight wars in winter don't live till spring.

The creative adult is the child who has survived.

People who deny the existence of dragons are often eaten by dragons. From within.

The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next.

Those who build walls are their own prisoners. I'm going to go fulfill my proper function in the social organism. I'm going to unbuild walls.

I doubt that the imagination can be suppressed. If you truly eradicated it in a child, he would grow up to be an eggplant.

We read books to find out who we are. What other people, real or imaginary, do and think and feel... is an essential guide to our understanding of what we ourselves are and may become.

There have been great societies that did not use the wheel, but there have been no societies that did not tell stories.

Love doesn't just sit there, like a stone; it has to be made, like bread, remade all the time, made new.

It is good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.

You cannot buy the revolution. You cannot make the revolution. You can only be the revolution. It is in your spirit, or it is nowhere.

It is not in words that I should wish my life to be distinguished, but rather in things done.

When you are born--what you are born into, the place, the history of the place, how that history mates with your own-- stamps who you are, whatever the pundits of globalisation have to say.

Liberal learning is both a safeguard against false ideas of freedom and a source of true ones.

I go to bed early; my favorite dream comes on at nine.

I just want to make music and make a living. I just have to find the means of doing that.

We live with that sense of not being enough, and it causes a very painful state.

For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.

I'm an engineer and a writer. And I find that those two things are not uncomplementary.

Woke up this morning with a wine glass in my hand. Who's wine, what wine, where the hell did I dine?

Our tree became the talking tree of the fairy tale; legends and stories nestled like birds in its branches.