I'm perfectly happy to know the world at secondhand. It's a lot safer.

She wanted to return to her dream. Perhaps it was still somewhere there behind her closed eyelids. Perhaps a little of its happiness still clung like gold dust to her lashes. Don't dreams in fairy tales sometimes leave a token behind?

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

I remember the feeling. Whenever my father got so absorbed in a book that we might have been in visible I felt like taking a pair of scissors and cutting it up.

Believe, believe, believe

And I always read the English translation and always have conversations with my translator, for example about the names. I always have to approve it.

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