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Lord, if only you would give me this and this and this, then I will thank you and ask for nothing more except for this and this and this.…

She opened her eyes and looked at the ring lying in the dark palm of the smith. And her tears burst forth in torrents, for she felt as if she had never before fully understood what it signified. The life to which this ring had married her, over which she had complained and grumbled, raged and rebelled. And yet she had loved it so, rejoicing over it, with both the bad and the good, so that there was not a single day she would have given back to God without lament or a single sorrow she would have relinquished without regret.

Stories, like food, lose their flavor if cooked in a hurry.

for I had reached a point in my life when I came to view words differently. A closer look at language could reveal the secret of life.

There is no difference between old and modern stories. Stories are stories. All stories are old. All stories are new. All stories belong to tomorrow. And stories are not about ogres or about animals or about men. All stories are about human beings."

That was one of the most rewarding things about spending nights in the open. Birds were bound to wake you up, and whether they carried good or bad luck, at least they woke you up with music.

It's terrible when the old have to bury the young. But it is more terrible when neither the old nor the young are there to bury each other.

Her eyes have been opened to the fact that after the burdens and toil of a young mother comes a new kind of fear and concern for the aging mother.

All fires burn out sooner or later.

Many a man is given what was intended for another, but no one is given another man’s fate.

Gatuĩria was at least aware that the slavery of language is the slavery of the mind and nothing to be proud of."

Written words can also sing.