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The young woman was crying, in the way that grownups cry, keeping it inside as much as they can, and hating it when it still pushes out at the edges, making them ugly and funny-looking on the way.

Neil Gaiman

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Neil Gaiman
Age: 64
Born: 1960
Born: November 10
Actor
Author
Beekeeper
Blogger
Comics Writer
Film Director
Film Producer
Journalist
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Portchester
Hampshire
Neil Richard Gaiman
Neil Richard MacKinnon Gaiman
Stills
Ugly
Young
Cry
Still
Inside
Grownups
Much
Looking
Pushes
Way
Funny
Hating
Woman
Crying
Making
Edges
Hate
Keeping

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I've learned over the years that everything is more or less the same amount of work, so you may as well set your sights high and try and do something really cool.
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That's sexism, that is. Going around giving people girly presents just because they're a girl.
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There was no moon but the night sky was a riot of crisp and glittering autumn stars. There were streetlights too and lights on buildings and on bridges which looked like earthbound stars and they glimmered repeated as they were reflected with the city in the night water of the Thames. It’s fairyland thought Richard.
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I think of myself as a very lazy author.
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Everybody has a secret world inside of them. I mean everybody. All of the people in the whole world, I mean everybody — no matter how dull and boring they are on the outside. Inside them they've all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds... Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe.
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I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled.
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I was always so relieved that anyone wants to publish anything I've written.
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A world in which there are monsters, and ghosts, and things that want to steal your heart is a world in which there are angels, and dreams and a world in which there is hope.
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She was the storm, she was the lightning, she was the adult world with all its power and all its secrets and all its foolish casual cruelty.
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The important thing to understand about American history, wrote Mr. Ibis, in his leather-bound journal, is that it is fictional, a charcoal-sketched simplicity for the children, or the easily bored.
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Sleep my little baby-oh Sleep until you waken When you wake you'll see the world If I'm not mistaken... Kiss a lover Dance a measure, Find your name And buried treasure... Face your life Its pain, Its pleasure, Leave no path untaken.
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Then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life... You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore.
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Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.
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Agnes was the worst prophet that's ever existed. Because she was always right. That's why the book never sold.
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Are you scared?’ asked Mr. Ibis. ‘Not really.’ ‘Well, try to cultivate the emotions of true awe and spiritual terror, as we walk. They are the appropriate feelings for the situation at hand.
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It is not that I was credulous, simply that I belived in all things dark and dangerous. It was part of my young creed that the night was full of ghosts and witches, hungry and flapping and dressed completely in black.
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The boy had the towering arrogance only seen in the greatest of artists and all nine-year-old boys.
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Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do. Make good art.
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Shadow looked down at the girl on the table. “What happened to her?” he asked. “Poor taste in boyfriends,” said Jacquel. “It’s not always fatal.
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Writing, and especially writing a novel, where you get to sit in a room by yourself with either a pen and a paper or a computer for a couple of years, is a very solitary occupation. You can read sales figures - a hundred thousand books sold, half a million books sold - but they are just numbers.
Neil Gaiman