Even now I remember those pictures, like pictures in a storybook one loved as a child. Radiant meadows, mountains vaporous in the trembling distance; leaves ankle-deep on a gusty autumn road; bonfires and fog in the valleys; cellos, dark window-panes, snow.

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

The revolution is like a vessel filled with the pulsating heartbeat of millions of working people.

I’m beginning to think I’ve led a much too sheltered life.

Written By Diana Wynne Jones

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