Charles de Lint
Canadian fantasy author and Celtic folk musician.
The real problem is, people think life is a ladder, and it’s really a wheel.
I had the same questions for Superman as I did for God: If he was so powerful, why didn’t he deal with some real problems? Why didn’t he stop wars, feed the starving in Ethiopia, cure cancer? At least God had the Church to do His PR work for Him — if you can buy their reasoning, they have any number of explanations ranging from how the troubles of this life build character to that inarguable catchall, “God’s will.” And the crap in this life sure makes heaven look good.
When I was growing up, the writers and artists of Superman never even tried to deal with the problem. And since they didn’t, I could only see Superman as a monster, not a hero. I couldn’t believe his battles with criminals, superpowered geniuses and the like.
I never believed in God either.
They stood and listened, arms around each other for comfort, as the sound washed over them. It reverberated in the marrow of their bones, sung high and sweet, heartbreakingly mournful, quick as a jig, slow as the saddest air. Their hearts swelled with its beauty, its mystery. With all it revealed, and all that it hid.
That dichotomy between who she was and who she thought she should be was what really killed her.
Like legend and myth, magic fades when it is unused — hence all the old tales of elfin Kingdoms moving further and further away from our world, or that magical beings require our faith, our belief in their existence, to survive. ... That is a lie. All they require is our recognition.
I love this world ... That is what rules my life. When I die, I want to have done all in my power to leave it in a better state than it was in when I found it. At the same time I know that this can never be. The world has grown so complex that one voice can do little to alter it any longer. That doesn't stop me from doing what I can but it makes the task hard. The successes are so small, the failures so large and many. It's like trying to stem a storm with one's bare hands.
One expected growth, change; without it, the world was less, the well of inspiration dried up, the muses fled.
When you’re invisible, no one can see that you’re different.
A body of work may be reviled — mostly by those who have no knowledge of its workings — and yet still carry elements of what can only be considered eternal truths.
“Compromise is necessary,” Max agreed, “so long as you never give up who you are. That isn’t compromise; that’s spiritual death. You have to remain true to yourself.”
I don't know why I care what people write about me after I'm dead, except that since I invest so much of my time telling the truth in my fiction, I'd hate to see someone play fast and loose with the pieces of my life. I don't care what they might think of me; but I don't want lies about my life used to invalidate the stories. My characters seem real because they are drawn from the realities of my life. I didn't have to research their pain; I just tapped into my own.
I've always had these bouts of depression; I hide them well but doesn't mean they aren't there. ... I didn't have anyone around for whom I had to put on a cheerful mask. The thing with pretending you're in a good mood is that sometimes you can actually trick yourself into feeling better.
A long time ago a bunch of people reached a general consensus as to what’s real and what’s not and most of us have been going along with it ever since.
Why did men worship in churches, locking themselves away in the dark, when the world lay beyond its doors in all its real glory?
If you understand, things are just as they are. If you do not understand, things are just as they are.
Nothing’s different, but everything has changed.
As far as I'm concerned, the only difference between fact and what most people call fiction is about fifteen pages in the dictionary.
The problem with children is that you have to put up with their parents.
Life’s like art. You have to work hard to keep it simple and still have meaning.
If you're not ready to die, then how can you live?