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Magic happens, see. It's just like on those bumper stickers, the ones that say, 'Miracles Happen', or 'Jesus Happens'. I never really took those too seriously. I mean, they're bumper stickers. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. Miracles? Right. Jesus? Maybe. But magic?

I think miracles exist in part as gifts and in part as clues that there is something beyond the flat world we see.

Magic is the mysteries into which not everyone is so lucky, or unlucky, as to be initiated. It can be affected by belief, the whims of the unseen, harsh language. And it is not. Supposed. To make. Sense. In fact, I think it's coolest when it doesn't.

Mysteries are not necessarily miracles.

For some people, miracles serve as evidence of God's existence.

It is almost impossible to exaggerate the proneness of the human mind to take miracles as evidence, and to seek for miracles as evidence.

I think that magic, at its root, is a very abstract notion. There's no real, approved definition. And, in that sense, it's like love; you can only see magic by the effect it has on people.

Miracles, in the sense of phenomena we cannot explain, surround us on every hand: life itself is the miracle of miracles.

Belief in the supernatural reflects a failure of the imagination.

It's not that I don't believe in miracles, but I never quite trust that they're real.