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.

There are not so many mythical creatures from Inkheart.

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?

Please," she whispered as she opened the book, "please get me out of here just for an hour or so, please take me far, far away

Books are like flypaper, memories cling to the printed pages better than anything else.

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

We're all liars when it serves our purpose.