They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.

At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.

Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes I can't find myself any more. When did I stop being me?

With a secret like that, at some point the secret itself becomes irrelevant. The fact that you kept it does not.

It's as though I've been sleepwalking and suddenly woken to find myself here

You work hard on a book and throw it out there and then it's beyond your control.

I think there is just a vein of humanity that really loves animals and really loves to read about them.