Didn't books say that too: that there is always price to pay for happiness?

And my father always took me to the library. We were both book addicts.

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

So Mo began filling the silence with words. He lured them out of the pages as if they had only been waiting for his voice, words long and short, words sharp and soft, cooing, purring words. They danced through the room, painting stained glass pictures, tickling the skin. Even when Meggie nodded off she could still hear them, although Mo had closed the book long ago. Words that explained the world to her, its dark side and its light side, words that built a wall to keep out bad dreams. And not a single bad dream came over that wall for the rest of the night.

Where did the love come from? What was it made of?

How fast the ears learned to tell what sounds meant, much faster than it took the eyes to decipher written words.

Sometimes, when you're so sad you don't know what to do, it helps to be angry.