[b]Neil Gaiman
Every lover is, in his heart, a madman, and, in his head, a minstrel.[/b]
With absolutely no exceptions of course.
Anyone who believes what a cat tells him deserves all he gets.
And my cat was no exception.
There are only two worlds - your world, which is the real world, and other worlds, the fantasy. Worlds like this are worlds of the human imagination: their reality, or lack of reality, is not important. What is important is that they are there. these worlds provide an alternative. Provide an escape. Provide a threat. Provide a dream, and power; provide refuge, and pain. They give your world meaning. They do not exist; and thus they are all that matters.
Exagerated, sure. But let’s decide by how much.
Stories, like people and butterflies and songbirds’ eggs and human hearts and dreams, are also fragile things, made up of nothing stronger or more lasting than twenty-six letters and a handful of punctuation marks.
Let’s file this one under, “now that he mentions it…”
How do I know you’ll keep your word? asked Coraline.
I swear it, said the other mother. I swear it on my own mother’s grave.
Does she have a grave? asked Coraline.
Oh yes, said the other mother. I put her in there myself. And when I found her trying to crawl out, I put her back.
Sounds trustworthy to me.
People believe, thought Shadow. It’s what people do. They believe, and then they do not take responsibility for their beliefs; they conjure things, and do not trust the conjuration. People populate the darkness; with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales. People imagine, and people believe; and it is that rock solid belief, that makes things happen.
“In their head”, for example.