Magic exists. Who can doubt it, when there are rainbows and wildflowers, the music of the wind and the silence of the stars? Anyone who has loved has been touched by magic. It is such a simple and such an extraordinary part of the lives we live.

The tune was sad, as the best of Ireland was, melancholy and lovely as a lover's tears.

People in hell want snowcones.

Love and magic have a great deal in common. They enrich the soul, delight the heart. And they both take practice.

Some people get lifetimes, some get moments. I’ve got to tell myself it’s what you do with what you get that counts.

It was a mistake to think of houses, old houses, as being empty. They were filled with memories, with the faded echoes of voices. Drops of tears, drops of blood, the ring of laughter, the edge of tempers that had ebbed and flowed between the walls, into the walls, over the years.
Wasn't it, after all, a kind of life?
And there were houses, he knew it, that breathed. They carried in their wood and stone, their brick and mortar a kind of ego that was nearly, very nearly, human.