Nothing Is More Frightening Than A Fear

Who Are You?' Mo Looked At The White Women. Then He Looked At Dustfinger's Still Face. Guess.' The Bird Ruffled Up Its Golden Feathers, And Mo Saw That The Mark On Its Breast Was Blood. You Are Death.' Mo Felt The Word Heavy On His Tongue. Could Any Word Be Heavier?

Because By Now Elinor Had Understood This, Too: A Longing For Books Was Nothing Compared With What You Could Feel For Human Beings. The Books Told You About That Feeling. The Books Spoke Of Love, And It Was Wonderful To Listen To Them, But They Were No Substitute For Love Itself. They Couldn't Kiss Her Like Meggie, They Couldn't Hug Her Like Resa, They Couldn't Laugh Like Mortimer. Poor Books, Poor Elinor.

Reality Is A Fragile Thing.

Neither Goyl Nor Men Lived Long Enough To Understand That Yesterday Was Born Of Tomorrow, Just As Tomorrow Was Born Of Yesterday.

We All Know What Fun It Can Be To Get Right Into A Book And Live There For A While, But Falling Out Of A Story And Suddenly Finding Yourself In This World Doesn't Seem To Be Much Fun At All.