The Wind Through the Keyhole

What if I fall?', Tim cried. Maerlyn laughed. 'Sooner or later, we all do.

In the end, the wind takes everything, doesn't it? And why not? Why other? If the sweetness of our lives did not depart, there would be no sweetness at all.

A person’s never too old for stories. Man and boy, girl and woman, we live for them. - Roland Deschain

Time is a keyhole, he thought as he looked up at the stars. Yes, I think so. We sometimes bend and peer through it. And the wind we feel on our cheeks when we do - the wind that blows through the keyhole- is the breath of all the living universe.

Pray for rain all you like, but dig a well as you do it.

It was not fair, it was not fair, it was not fair. So cried his child's heart, and then his child's heart died a little. For that is also the way of the world.

There's nothing like stories on a windy night when folks have found a warm place in a cold world.

Time was a face on the water, and like the great river before them, it did nothing but flow.

It hurt, of course, but more often than not the best things do, I've found.

The stories we hear in our childhood are the ones we remember all our lives.

The two most beautiful words in any language are : I forgive.

The worst thing about wishes is that sometimes they come true

Stories take a person away. If they're good ones, that is.

Look not long at what’s offered, for every precious thing has wings and may fly away.

The stories we hear in childhood are the ones we remember all our lives.

I the sweetness of our lives did not depart, there would be no sweetness at all.

The only stupid question, my cullies, is the one you don't ask.

He felt awe as he looked up at those stars, but also a deep and abiding contentment, such as he had felt as a child, awakening in the night, safe and warm beneath his quilt, drowsing half in and half out of sleep, listening to the wind sing its lonely song of other places and other lives.

It hurt, of course, but more often than not the best things do, I’ve found. You wouldn’t think it could be so, but—as the oldtimers used to say—the world’s tilted, and there’s an end to it.

Before he said I was too old for stories.” “A person’s never too old for stories, Bill. Man and boy, girl and woman, never too old. We live for them.” “Do you say so?” “I do.

Once upon a bye, before your grandfather’s grandfather was born, on the edge of an unexplored wilderness called the Endless Forest, there lived a boy named Tim

A person’s never too old for stories, Bill. Man and boy, girl and woman, never too old. We live for them.

It seemed to him that if the wrong man stepped into the marriage-loop with a woman, it was a noose instead of a ring.

My heart was full of hate and love and regret-all those things that have haunted me ever since.

Tim Stoutheart was afraid, too,” I said. “But he went on. I expect you to do the same.

Tim stared at the steel rod in the gloved hand. "Is that a magic wand?" The Covenant Man appeared to consider. "I suppose so. Although it started life as the gearshift of a Dodge Dart, America's economy car, young Tim." "What's America?" "A kingdom filled with toy-loving idiots. It has no part in our palaver.

In the end, the wind takes everything, doesn’t it? And why not? Why other? If the sweetness of our lives did not depart, there would be no sweetness at all.

Roland felt an unaccustomed sorrow rise up from his heart. Time was a face on the water, and like the great river before them, it did nothing but flow.

The feast I ate was rotten, What I thought was a palace was a dungeon.

The stories we hear in childhood are the ones we remember all our lives. After