Never in his life had Edward been cradled like a baby. Abilene had not done it. Nor had Nellie. And most certainly, Bull had not. It was a singular sensation to be held so gently and yet so fiercely, to be stared down at with so much love. Edward felt the whole of his china body flood with warmth. (page 128)

In luggage claim at the Minneapolis airport, the guy came up to me and said, "Maybe you're wrong, maybe stories do matter." I wrote that on a scrap of paper and put it above my desk. That was the thing that pushed me through to the end of telling Despereaux, that comment, "Maybe they do...maybe stories matter."

May God strike me down with a hammer on the head before I write a book with a teach-y goal!

What was it like...to have someone who knew you would always return and who welcomed you with open arms?

No one cared what she wanted. No one had ever cared. And perhaps, worst of all, no one ever would care.

The world is dark, and light is precious. Come closer, dear reader. You must trust me. I am telling you a story.

As far as books getting turned into movies, I fared very, very well.