This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. - Ursula K. Le Guin

How could anybody think this man was sick? All right, so he had funny dreams. That was better than being plain mean and hateful, like about one quarter of the people she had ever met.

Excess is excrement, ... Excrement retained in the body is a poison.

All I know is the dark, the night underground. And that’s all there really is. That’s all there is to know, in the end. The silence, and the dark. You know everything, wizard. But I know one thing — the one true thing!