SEASONS PASSED, FALL AND WINTER and spring and summer. Leaves blew in through the open door of Lucius Clarke’s shop, and rain, and the green outrageous hopeful light of spring. People came and went, grandmothers and doll collectors and little girls with their mothers. Edward Tulane waited. The seasons turned into years. Edward Tulane waited. He repeated the old doll’s words over and over until they wore a smooth groove of hope in his brain: Someone will come; someone will come for you.

I like to think of myself as a storyteller.

Forgiveness, reader, is, I think, something very much like hope and love - a powerful, wonderful thing. And a ridiculous thing, too.

I love words; I love the way they sound. Once I've worked on everything else, the last drafts of my books come down to how they sound.

Perhaps," said the man, "you would like to be lost with us. I have found it much more agreeable to be lost in the company of others.

The closest I can get to describing what happens is that voices come to me. I feel like I'm accessing something that is deeper and richer than me.

I have learned how to love. And it's a terrible thing. I'm broken. My heart is broken. Help me.