“I’m sorry to tell you this, sprite, but you are definitely little.”

“Just let yourself be broken and humiliated. Just your whole life, keep telling people, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry...”

“Finally, I’d say to anyone who wants to tell these tales, don’t be afraid to be superstitious. If you have a lucky pen, use it. If you speak with more force and wit when wearing one red sock and one blue one, dress like that. When I’m at work I’m highly superstitious. My own superstition has to do with the voice in which the story comes out. I believe that every story is attended by its own sprite, whose voice we embody when we tell the tale, and that we tell it more successfully if we approach the sprite with a certain degree of respect and courtesy. These sprites are both old and young, male and female, sentimental and cynical, sceptical and credulous, and so on, and what’s more, they’re completely amoral: like the air-spirits who helped Strong Hans escape from the cave, the story-sprites are willing to serve whoever has the ring, whoever is telling the tale. To the accusation that this is nonsense, that all you need to tell a story is a human imagination, I reply, ‘Of course, and this is the way my imagination works.”

“Rebecca let out a gusty sigh. “Pregnant, I tell you. I’m definitely getting pregnant.” Her mother responded by passing over the tearful little guy. Not a bad idea, Jane decided. Birth control by baby brother”

“I’m sorry if I’m not flirting with you. I’m kind of spoken for.”

“I love you, David. I’m sorry for not telling you, but I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you. I’m sorry I hurt you when all you ever did was love me. I need you to forgive me before . . .” I reached out for David with my left hand, “before it’s over.”