No more words. We know them all, all the words that should not be said. But you have made my world more perfect.

Don't look back!" "Why not?" "Because I just did! Run faster!

... when your name is really and truly Percy Blakeney, pronounced 'Black-knee', and you still have bad acne in your twenties, you accept Pimple as a nickname and are grateful that it wasn't anything worse.

You haven't really been anywhere until you've got back home.

Sometimes words need music too. Sometimes the descriptions are not enough. Books should be written with soundtracks, like films.

She wore so much thick white makeup in order to conceal her naturally rosy complexion that if she turned around suddenly her face would probably end up on the back of her head.

Did I do anything last night that suggested I was sane?