I don't know why people would want to have lunch with writers. I've eaten with writers. We have appalling table manners, and rarely say anything other than 'Pass the salt' or 'If you're not going to eat that, can I have it?'

I can get away before the storm hits. Away from a world in which opiates have become the religion of the masses.

But standing in that hallway, it was all coming back to me. Memories were waiting at the edges of things, beckoning to me.

A book is a dream that you hold in your hands.

She was also an adult, and when adults fight children, adults always win.

For tea she went down to see Misses Spink and Forcible. She had three digestive biscuits, a glass of limeade, and a cup of weak tea. The limeade was very interesting. It didn't taste anything like limes. It tasted bright green and vaguely chemical. Coraline liked it enormously. She wished they had it at home. "How are your dear mother and father?" asked Miss Spink. "Missing," said Coraline. "I haven't seen either of them since yesterday. I'm on my own. I think I've probably become a single child family.

Stories may well be lies, but they are good lies that say true things, and which can sometimes pay the rent.