Many [book] Even Lay Flat In The

Isn't It Odd How Much Fatter A Book Gets When You've Read It Several Times?

Blue As The Evening Sky, Blue As Cranesbill Flowers, Blue As The Lips Of Drowned Men And The Heart Of A Blaze Burning With Too Hot A Flame. Yes, Sometimes It Was Hot In This World, Too. Hot And Cold, Light And Dark, Terrible And Beautiful, It Was Everything All At Once. It Wasn't True That You Felt Nothing In The Land Of Death. You Felt And Heard And Smelled And Saw, But Your Heart Remained Strangely Calm, As If It Were Resting Before The Dance Began Again. Peace. Was That The Word?

You Know, It's A Funny Thing About Writers. Most People Don't Stop To Think Of Books Being Written By People Much Like Themselves. They Think That Writers Are All Dead Long Ago--they Don't Expect To Meet Them In The Street Or Out Shopping. They Know Their Stories But Not Their Names, And Certainly Not Their Faces. And Most Writers Like It That Way.

Why Do Grown-ups Think It's Easier For Children To Bear Secrets Than The Truth? Don't They Know About The Horror Stories We Imagine To Explain The Secrets?

He Flung His Arms Around Her Neck, But Only Once He Saw Silvertoungue's Back Was Turned. He Never Knew With Fathers. "i'll Save Him, Meggie!" He Wispered In Her Ear. "i'll Bring Dustfinger Back. This Story Will Have A Happy Ending.i Swear!