Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love... It wasn’t dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost too fast for you to see. But still, you know it’s there, down where you can’t see, kindling.

If you're an actor, you know people are going to recognize you in a restaurant. If you're a rock star, you know people are going to stop you on the street and ask you for your autograph. But as an author? That's not something I was ready for.

My mom once lost track of me at the zoo and when she found me I was lecturing a man about the difference between dromedary and Bactrian camels. I was about 3 1/2.

But how awful would that be? How terrible to live surrounded by the stark, sharp, hollowness of things that simply were enough?

That's all that really matters in the end. Stories.

That is how heavy a secret can become. It can make blood flow easier than ink.

Just handle the books gently and you’ll get along fine.