So what? All writers are lunatics!

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

The night swallowed him up like a thieving fox.

Neither Goyl nor men lived long enough to understand that yesterday was born of tomorrow, just as tomorrow was born of yesterday.

Which of us has not felt that the character we are reading in the printed page is more real than the person standing beside us?

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

Dustfinger inspected his reddened fingers and felt the taut skin. ‘He might tell me how my story ends,’ he murmured. Meggie looked at him in astonishment. ‘You mean you don’t know?’ Dustfinger smiled. Meggie still didn’t particularly like his smile. It seemed to appear only to hide something else. ‘What’s so unusual about that, princess?’ he asked quietly. ‘Do you know how your story ends?’ Meggie had no answer for that.