As For What It's Against

The Sight Filled The Northern Sky; The Immensity Of It Was Scarcely Conceivable. As If From Heaven Itself, Great Curtains Of Delicate Light Hung And Trembled. Pale Green And Rose-pink, And As Transparent As The Most Fragile Fabric, And At The Bottom Edge A Profound Fiery Crimson Like The Fires Of Hell, They Swung And Shimmered Loosely With More Grace Than The Most Skillful Dancer.

I'm Just Trying To Wake Up - I'm So Afraid Of Sleeping All My Life And Then Dying - I Want To Wake Up First. I Wouldn't Care If It Was Just For An Hour, As Long As I Was Properly Alive And Awake.

I Am A Strong Believer In The Tyranny, The Dictatorship, The Absolute Authority Of The Writer.

Gradually, At Various Points In Our Childhoods, We Discover Different Forms Of Conviction. There's The Rock-hard Certainty Of Personal Experience ("i Put My Finger In The Fire And It Hurt,"), Which Is Probably The Earliest Kind We Learn. Then There's The Logically Convincing, Which We Probably Come To First Through Maths, In The Context Of Pythagoras's Theorem Or Something Similar, And Which, If We First Encounter It At Exactly The Right Moment, Bursts On Our Minds Like Sunrise With The Whole Universe Playing A Great Chord Of C Major.

Lyra Learns To Her Great Cost That Fantasy Isn’t Enough. She Has Been Lying All Her Life, Telling Stories To People, Making Up Fantasies, And Suddenly She Comes To A Point Where That’s Not Enough. All She Can Do Is Tell The Truth. She Tells The Truth About Her Childhood, About The Experiences She Had In Oxford, And That Is What Saves Her. True Experience, Not Fantasy - Reality, Not Lies - Is What Saves Us In The End.