I Was Born In Norwich

Her Last Conscious Thought Was Disgust At Life; Her Senses Had Lied To Her. The World Was Not Made Of Energy And Delight But Of Foulness, Betrayal, And Lassitude. Living Was Hateful, And Death Was No Better, And From End To End Of The Universe This Was The First And Last And Only Truth.

A Story, To Me, Has A Particular Sprite, Like The Angel Of The Spirit Of That Story - And It's My Job To Attend To What It Wants To Do. When I Tell The Story Of Cinderella, The Sprite Does Not Want Me To Make It Into An Allegory Of The Fall Of Communism. The Sprite Would Be Unhappy If I Did That.

It Does Not Make Sense. It Cannot Exist. It's Impossible, And If It Isn't Impossible, It's Irrelevant, And If It Isn't Either Of Those Things, It's Embarrassing.

She Had Asked: What Is He? A Friend Or An Enemy? The Alethiometer Answered: He Is A Murderer. When She Saw The Answer, She Relaxed At Once. He Could Find Food, And Show Her How To Reach Oxford, And Those Were Powers That Were Useful, But He Might Still Have Been Untrustworthy Or Cowardly. A Murderer Was A Worthy Companion. She Felt As Safe With Him As She'd Done With Iorek Byrnison The Armoured Bear.

I'm With The Grimms On This: Stories For Young And Old. You Can't Characterize Them Any Better Than That.