“I may not be a horse whisperer, but I certainly can and do shout at unicorns.”

“I think that if you have a horse, pegasus, qilin, or unicorn, you should sit on it! You should stroke its hair, whisper in its ear, be one with it! And you shouldn't feel sorry if other people don't have one.”

“How can it be?" she wondered. "I suppose I could understand it if men had simply forgotten unicorns (...) But not to see them at all, to look at them and see something else — what do they look to one another, then? What do trees look like to them, or houses, or real horses, or their own children?”

“I’m like a ventriloquist chasing his own voice. I can whisper and shout at the same time, and this is the closest approximation I have to a description of love. I would offer you something to drink, but I’m not in the kitchen, even though it may sound like I am.”

“I whisper like the sea in the horse's ear.”

“Don’t leave me,” he whispers.“Oh, for crying out loud—no! I am not going to go!” I shout and it’s cathartic. There, I’ve said it. I am not leaving.“Really?” His eyes widen.“What can I do to make you understand I will not run? What can I say?”He gazes at me, revealing his fear and anguish again. He swallows. “There is one thing you can do.”“What?” I snap.“Marry me,” he whispers.”