Dustfinger still clearly remembered the feeling of being in love for the first time. How vulnerable his heart had suddenly been! Such a trembling, quivering thing, happy and miserably unhappy at once.
Stories never really end…even if the books like to pretend they do. Stories always go on. They don’t end on the last page, any more than they begin on the first page.
Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you secruity and friendship and didn’t ask for anything in return; they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly.
Women were different, no doubt about it. Men broke so much more quickly. Grief didn’t break women. Instead it wore them down, it hollowed them out very slowly.
Which of us has not felt that the character we are reading in the printed page is more real than the person standing beside us?
Read – and be curious. And if somebody says to you: ‘Things are this way. You can’t change it’ – don’t believe a word.
As Mo had said: writing stories is a kind of magic, too.
This book taught me, once and for all, how easily you can escape this world with the help of words! You can find friends between the pages of a book, wonderful friends.
It’s a good idea to have your own books with you in a strange place
It [the book] was spinning a magic spell around her heart, sticky as a spider’s web and enchantingly beautiful..
Weren’t all books ultimately related? After all, the same letters filled them, just arranged in a different order. Which meant that, in a certain way, every book was contained in every other!
Books are like flypaper, memories cling to the printed pages better than anything else.
Because fear kills everything,” Mo had once told her. “Your mind, your heart, your imagination.
-You forgot something important!-What?-It’s under my sweater!-WHAT?!-Me!
She read and read and read, but she was stuffing herself with the letters on the page like an unhappy child stuffing itself with chocolate. They didn’t taste bad, but she was still unhappy.
I always used to read aloud to her in the evenings–
If you keep pretending you’re in that book, it will make you not want to live in the life you’re in.
…….only the powerful were hated, and that was what he was meant to be in this world.Powerful.
You’re the one who says books have to be heavy because the whole world’s inside them…
Courage was something John Reckless only ever wished he had. Courage was not a given; it was acquired, earned. You had to take the difficult paths, and John had always picked the easy ones.
Children, they’re the same everywhere. Greedy little creatures but the best listeners in the world -any world. The very best of all.
Words,words filled the night like the fragrance of invisible flowers.
The night belongs to beasts of prey, and always has. It’s easy to forget that when you’re indoors, protected by light and solid walls.
She wanted to return to her dream. Perhaps it was still somewhere there behind her closed eyelids. Perhaps a little of its happiness still clung like gold dust to her lashes. Don’t dreams in fairy tales sometimes leave a token behind?
When the heart craved something so forcefully, then reason became nothing but helpless observer.
Down there the nights are bright and nobody believes in the Devil.
When it came to hiding, even Gwin had nothing to teach Dustfinger. A strange sense of curiosity had always driven him to explore the hidden, forgotten corners of this and any other place, and all that knowledge had now come in useful.
Stories always go on. They don’t end on the last page any more than they begin on the first page
I’m perfectly happy to know the world at secondhand. It’s a lot safer.
That bloody bastard! That thrice accursed son of a bitch!
Night was fading over the fields as if the rain had washed the darkness out of the hem of its garment.
What was she hoping to gain from his death? That it would numb the pain of his betrayal, or heal her injured pride? Her red sister didn’t know much about love.
It was a chilly morning after the night’s rain, and the sun hung in the sky like a pale coin lost by someone high up in the clouds.
The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.
Meggie thought this first whisper sounded a little different from one book to another, depending on weather or not she already knew the story it was going to tell her.
He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be! Nature will soon grant your wish.
If I was a book, I would like to be a library book, so I would be taken home by all different sorts of kids.