Because by now Elinor had understood this, too: A longing for books was nothing compared with what you could feel for human beings. The books told you about that feeling. The books spoke of love, and it was wonderful to listen to them, but they were no substitute for love itself. They couldn't kiss her like Meggie, they couldn't hug her like Resa, they couldn't laugh like Mortimer. Poor books, poor Elinor.

When you open a book it's like going to the theater first you see the curtain then it is pulled aside and the show begins.

He wants to be grown-up. How different dreams can be! Nature will soon grant your wish.

My dear Elinor, you were obviously born into the wrong story,” said Dustfinger at last.

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?

If I was a book, I would like to be a library book, so I would be taken home by all different sorts of kids.

Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?