Often the adult book is not for you, not yet, or will only be for you when you're ready. But sometimes you will read it anyway, and you will take from it whatever you can. Then, perhaps, you will come back to it when you're older, and you will find the book has changed because you have changed as well, and the book is wiser, or more foolish, because you are wiser or more foolish than you were as a child.

It doesn't matter that I can't remember the details any longer: death happened to her. Death happens to all of us.

Here, far from our homes, we will be forgotten by our gods.

The truth is, it's not the idea, it's never the idea, it's always what you do with it.

Well-meaning adults can easily destroy a child’s love of reading: stop them reading what they enjoy, or give them worthy-but-dull books that you like, the 21st-century equivalents of Victorian “improving” literature. You’ll wind up with a generation convinced that reading is uncool and worse, unpleasant.

The world seemed to shimmer a little at the edges.

Continuity isn't actually something that I ever worry about. You use it where you need to, and you don't use it where you don't need to.