Without imagination, writing is a stack of lumber, a sack of nails, and a locked tool shed.
The Daddy RockHer metaphors for her children included barnacles encrusting a ship and limpets clinging to a rock.
The Edible WomanThe gods do make playthings of us. But it is we mortals who provide them with tools.
Finnikin of the RockBecause without our language, we have lost ourselves. Who are we without our words?
Finnikin of the RockThis was hell then; it wasn't anything to worry about: it was just his own familiar room.
Brighton Rock