No purer artist exists or has ever existed than a child freed to imagine. [...] To drive children into labour is to slaughter artists, to scour deathly all wonder, the flickering dart of imagination eager as finches flitting from branch to branch –...
The soul knows no greater anguish than to take a breath that begins with love and ends with grief.
Now, invite me in, before I lose my temperature.’ ‘Temper, you mean.’ ‘No, temperature. It’s getting chilly.
Memory did not let go; it remained the net dragged in one's wake, with all sorts of strange things snarled in the knotted strands.
