Never Run From Anything Immortal. It Attracts

The Moon Was Gone, But To The Magician's Eyes The Unicorn Was The Moon, Cold And White And Very Old, Lighting His Way To Safety, Or To Madness.

I Am No King, And I Am No Lord, And I Am No Soldier At-arms," Said He. "i'm None But A Harper, And A Very Poor Harper, That Am Come Hither To Wed With Ye." "if You Were A Lord, You Should Be My Lord, And The Same If You Were A Thief," Said She. "and If You Are A Harper, You Shall Be My Harper, For It Makes No Matter To Me, To Me, For It Makes No Matter To Me." "but What If It Prove That I Am No Harper? That I Lied For Your Love Most Monstrously?" "why, Then I'll Teach You To Play And Sing, For I Dearly Love A Good Harp," Said She.

You Ever Want To See Real Witchcraft, You Watch People Protecting Their Comfort, Their Beliefs.

Writing Has Nothing To Do With Publishing. Nothing. People Get Totally Confused About That. You Write Because You Have To - You Write Because You Can't Not Write. The Rest Is Show-business. I Can't State That Too Strongly. Just Write - Worry About The Rest Of It Later, If You Worry At All. What Matters Is What Happens To You While You're Writing The Story, The Poem, The Play. The Rest Is Show-business.

I Suppose I Could Understand It If Men Had Simply Forgotten Unicorns, But Not To See Them At All, To Look At Them And See Something Else — What Do They Look To One Another, Then? What Do Trees Look Like To Them, Or Houses, Or Real Horses, Or Their Own Children?