Patricia A. McKillip Quotes - Page 2

There are no simple words. I don't know why I thought I could hide anything behind language.

I write fantasy because it's there. I have no other excuse for sitting down for several hours a day indulging my imagination. Daydreaming. Thinking up imaginary people, impossible places.

Content, it dreams awake, and spins the fabric of tales. There is really nothing to be done with such imagery except to use it: in writing, in art.

Love and anger are like land and sea: They meet at many different places.

Here in Raine, I can walk with the sunlight on my face. I can speak to anyone who speaks to me. I can learn my daughter's language. I can be called the name I was given when I was born. Here I am no longer my own secret. Will you let me stay?

What?" It was a good word. Like a rock in a river, sticking up to let you land on it, so you could make your way across the flow.

Shall I add a man to my collection?

But even in the schoolyard I'd been aware of that silence, that reserve in him, as though he'd been raised by foxes and language was his second language.

Only yesterday a young woman came to me wanting a trap set for a man with a sweet smile and lithe arms. She was a fool, not for wanting him, but for wanting more of him than that.

Peace, tremulous, unexpected, sent a taproot out of nowhere into Morgan's heart.

I do not want to choose which one of you I must love or hate. Here, I am free to do neither. I want no part of your bitterness.

...that once were urgent and necessary for an orderly world and now were buried away, gathering dust and of no use to anyone.

Research the imagination. It was as obsolete as the appendix in most adults, except for those in whom, like the appendix, it became inflamed for no reason.

Love is an obsolete emotion, ranking in usefulness somewhere between earwigs and toe mold.

Epics are never written about libraries. They exist on whim; it depends on if the conquering army likes to read.

There was the gaudy patch of sunflowers beside the west gate of the palace of the Prince of Ombria, that did nothing all day long but turn their golden-haired, thousand-eyed faces to follow the sun.

All I wanted, even when I hated you most, was some poor, barren, parched excuse to love you. But you only gave me riddles.