“What, after all, is more real to us than the geography of our childhoods?”

“...speaking as a novelist myself, I know that members of our profession live in our imaginations as much or more as we inhabit what people call 'the real world'...”

“When the last autumn of Dickens's life was over, he continued to work through his final winter and into spring. This is how all of us writers give away the days and years and decades of our lives in exchange for stacks of paper with scratches and squiggles on them. And when Death calls, how many of us would trade all those pages, all that squandered lifetime-worth of painfully achieved scratches and squiggles, for just one more day, one more fully lived and experienced day? And what price would we writers pay for that one extra day spent with those we ignored while we were locked away scratching and squiggling in our arrogant years of solipsistic isolation?Would we trade all those pages for a single hour? Or all of our books for one real minute?”

“His imagination was always more real than the reality of daily life.”

“She [Beatrice] alone was still real for him, still implied meaning in the world, and beauty. Her nature became his landmark - what Melville would call, with more sobriety than we can now muster, his Greenwich Standard ...”

“More climbers die during the descent than on the way up.”Karakaredes seems to be considering this. After a minute he says, “Yes, but here on the summit, there must be some ritual . . .”“Hero photos,” gasps Paul. “Gotta . . . have . . . hero photos.”Our alien nods. “Did . . . anyone . . . bring an imaging device? A camera? I did not.”

“There is something about raising a child that helps to sharpen one's sense of what is real.”