Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?

A library book, I imagine, is a happy book.

What are stories for if we don't learn from them?

Dustfinger closed his eyes and listened. He was home again.

Since when does the butterfly ask about the caterpillar?

The heart was a weak, changeable thing, bent on nothing but love, and there could be no more fatal mistake than to make it your master. Reason must be in charge. It comforted you for the heart's foolishness, it sang mocking songs about love, derided it as a whim of nature, transient as flowers. So why did she still keep following her heart?

So it's happened, I kept thinking, you're in the middle of a story exactly as you've always wanted, and it's horrible. Fear tastes quite different when you're not just reading about it, Meggie, and playing hero wasn't half as much fun as I'd expected.