Everyone Is Small At Night.

Didn't Books Say That Too: That There Is Always Price To Pay For Happiness?

Desperate? So What? I'm Desperate, Too!" Fenoglio Snapped At Her. "my Story Is Foundering In Misfortune, And These Hands Here," He Said Holding Them Out To Her, "don't Want To Write Anymore! I'm Afraid Of Words Meggie! 'once They Were Like Honey, Now They're Poison, Pure Poison! But What Is A Writer Who Doesn't Love Words Anymore? What Have I Come To? This Story Is Devouring Me, Crushing Me, And I'm It's Creator!

Books Have To Be Heavy Because The Whole World's Inside Them.

I Remember The Feeling. Whenever My Father Got So Absorbed In A Book That We Might Have Been In Visible I Felt Like Taking A Pair Of Scissors And Cutting It Up.

She Pressed Her Hand Against Her Chest. No Heart. So Where Did The Love She Felt Come From?