“Islands of memory begin to rise above the river of his life. At first they are little uncharted islands, rocks just peeping above the surface of the waters. Round about them and behind in the twilight of the dawn stretches the great untroubled sheet of water; then new islands, touched to gold by the sun.”
“Rivers of fire. Even the rocks burn.An island rises from the sea.Dark magic in an errant phrase.The people bow to the lord of error.”
“The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.”
“No man is an island,” he says. “Islands are made of dirt and rocks and trees. I don’t know any people made of such things. Therefore, people are not islands.”
“Voyaging great distances – through forests, from island to island, across plains and into the mountains – is all about finding ourselves.”
“The sky above the island was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel—which is to say it was a bright, cheery blue.”