The Art Of Illusion Is Grace Itself.

The Only Consistent Narrative We Possess Is One That We Share With Every Other Life-form: We Are Born, We Live, And Then We Die.

The Stars, They Are As The Sun. Each Star. Every Star. And Those Spheres- They Are Worlds, Realms, Each One Different Yet The Same.

The Future Can Ever Promise But One Thing And One Thing Only: Surprises.

The Idea That An Author Can Extricate Her Or His Own Ongoing Life Experience From The Tale Being Written Is A Conceit Of Very Little Worth.

Betrayal Was The Greatest Of All Crimes, For It Took All That Was Human Within A Person And Made It A Thing Of Pain. In The Face Of That, Murder Itself Was Surcease: It Was Quick, And It Ended The Anguish And Despair Of A Life Without Hope.