The Real Trouble Comes From

I Hate The Thought Of Her Being Forced Into A Box That Doesn't Fit Her. Of Having Her Wings Cut Off, Her Sight Blinded, Her Hearing Muted, Her Voice Stilled.

I've Always Known And Been Interested In People Who Are A Little Bit Off The Norm. I Like To Call Attention To The Idea That They Are There, That They Are Real People, Not Invisible.

A Name Can't Begin To Encompass The Sum Of All Her Parts. But That's The Magic Of Names, Isn't It? That The Complex, Contradictory Individuals We Are Can Be Called Up Complete And Whole In Another Mind Through The Simple Sorcery Of A Name.

It's Not The Work Or The Personality Of The Founder Of A Religion That's Important, But What Its Followers Do With What They Learn.

She Knew This Music--knew It Down To The Very Core Of Her Being--but She Had Never Heard It Before. Unfamiliar, It Had Still Always Been There Inside Her, Waiting To Be Woken. It Grew From The Core Of Mystery That Gives A Secret Its Special Delight, Religion Its Awe. It Demanded To Be Accepted By Simple Faith, Not Dissected Or Questioned, And At The Same Time, It Begged To Be Doubted And Probed.