I could be listening to Painted Red weave the stories of the saints in her rich roomy voice, and beginning to see how all those stories were in some … - John Crowley

Stories were the way People lived. Like paths, they could be traveled in any direction, yet always ran from beginning to end.

There aren't many now who leave from the same world they were born into. Not here, not anywhere on earth as far as I can tell or know; the simplest and most unchanging of human societies have been shattered in the last hundred years, people flung into centrifuges of change and loss, that there comes to be nothing at last to say good-bye to. I was leaving the world, but it was not my world I was leaving

And lastly, the vastest circle, the infinity, the center point — Faëry, ladies and gentlemen, where the heroes ride across endless landscapes and sail sea beyond sea and there is no end to possibility —