a book always keeps something of its owner between its pages.

Everyone is small at night.

Hope. Nothing is more intoxicating.

Perhaps the story in the book is just the lid on a pan: It always stays the same, but underneath there's a whole world that goes on - developing and changing like our own world.

She read and read and read, but she was stuffing herself with the letters on the page like an unhappy child stuffing itself with chocolate. They didn’t taste bad, but she was still unhappy.

Stories never really end...even if the books like to pretend they do. Stories always go on. They don't end on the last page, any more than they begin on the first page.

Children, they're the same everywhere. Greedy little creatures but the best listeners in the world - any world. The very best of all.