Stories, like people and butterflies and songbirds’ eggs and human hearts and dreams, are also fragile things, made up of nothing stronger or more lasting than twenty-six letters and a handful of punctuation marks. Or they are words on the air, composed of sounds and ideas-abstract, invisible, gone once they’ve been spoken-and what could be… Continue reading Neil Gaiman
Stories you read when you’re the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called. Sometimes you’ll forget precisely what happened, but if a story touches you it will stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit. — Neil Gaiman,… Continue reading Neil Gaiman
To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due. ― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 4: Season of Mists. (Vertigo; Gph edition, March 10, 1999) Originally published 1990.
In a perfect world, you could fuck people without giving them a piece of your heart. And every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of heart you’ll never see again.” — Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders. (William Morrow; First Edition edition, September 26, 2006)
You never forget. It must be somewhere inside you. Even if the brain has forgotten, perhaps the teeth remember. Or the fingers. — Neil Gaiman, from “A Lunar Labyrinth,” Trigger Warning: Short Fictions and Disturbances. ( William Morrow February 3, 2015)
Death is a capricious thing. – Neil Gaiman, The Sandman #13. “The Doll’s House, Part 4: Men of Good Fortune” (Vertigo March 1990)
Her kiss is the deep ocean. Her kiss is not the deep ocean. Her kiss is the grey sky. Her kiss is a blind alley. Her kiss is her touch is her breath is her fingers is what remains after the laughing is over. Her kis is the black dog that follows you in the… Continue reading Neil Gaiman