Without the sun, the world would die of cold, without stories of boredom.

Poetry is word concentrate.

Words can zoom and zoar and zive, fly upside down and come alive.

A canon, some dogma, a couple of martyrs and a few prophets and literature is religion.

Words heal the brain; sentences heal the soul; books heal the world.

Literature and history share this, a passion to distort what happened.

Literature is the refrigerator that preserves tommorrow’s word entree.

As the artist knifes paint onto his canvass so the writer spatulas words onto our minds.

Modern certainty about uncertainty is by definition uncertain of its own uncertainty.

It only takes a lull to trepanate a skull.

Literature is culinary art with a slice of propaganda thrown in.

Stories restory our story.

One of the primary functions of literature is to entertain; we know this when what doesn’t delight doesn’t sell.

Every story ever written is every person’s story who has ever lived.

Literature and science have this in common — both are lies that tell the truth, sometimes.

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