And It's A Pity Too That I've

Go To Bed, You Fool," Calcifer Said Sleepily. "you're Drunk." "who, Me?" Said Howl. "i Assure You, My Friends, I Am Cone Sold Stober." He Got Up And Stalked Upstairs, Feeling For The Wall As If He Thought It Might Escape Him Unless He Kept In Touch With It. His Bedroom Door Did Escape Him.

"eight Days Of Luke" Was Refused By Another Confused Publisher On The Grounds That Children Shouldn't Strike Matches. When My Agent Pointed Out That David In The Book Was Twelve Years Old, The Publisher Said That He Was Striking Matches To Summon The Devil, Then, And This Couldn't Be Allowed.

Imagination Doesn’t Just Mean Making Things Up. It Means Thinking Things Through, Solving Them, Or Hoping To Do So, And Being Just Distant Enough To Be Able To Laugh At Things That Are Normally Painful. Head Teachers Would Call This Escapism, But They Would Be Entirely Wrong. I Would Call Fantasy The Most Serious, And The Most Useful, Branch Of Writing There Is. And This Is Why I Don’t, And Never Would, Write Real Books.

If You Take Myth And Folklore, And These Things That Speak In Symbols, They Can Be Interpreted In So Many Ways That Although The Actual Image Is Clear Enough, The Interpretation Is Infinitely Blurred, A Sort Of Enormous Rainbow Of Every Possible Colour You Could Imagine.

It Is Quite A Risk To Spank A Wizard For Getting Hysterical About His Hair.