You know what they say: When people start burning books they'll soon burn human beings.

There was another reason [she] took her books whenever they went away. They were her home when she was somewhere strange. They were familiar voices, friends that never quarreled with her, clever, powerful friends -- daring and knowledgeable, tried and tested adventurers who had traveled far and wide. Her books cheered her up when she was sad and kept her from being bored.

Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.

All books are in safe hands with me. They're my children, my inky children, and I look after them well. I keep the sunlight away from their pages, I dust and protect them from hungry hookworms and grubby human fingers.

She pressed her hand against her chest. No heart. So where did the love she felt come from?

Nobody loves only once.

When the heart craved something so forcefully, then reason became nothing but helpless observer.