I Love To Read, I

You Really Don't Understand The First Thing About Writing...for One Thing, Early In The Morning Is The Worst Possible Time. The Brain Is Like A Wet Sponge At That Hour. And For Another, Real Writing Is A Question Of Staring Into Space And Waiting For The Right Ideas.

Life Was More Difficult In Inkheart, Yet It Seemed To Meggie That With Every New Day Fenoglio's Story Was Spinning A Magic Spell Around Her Heart, Sticky As A Spider's Web And Enchantingly Beautiful.

Because By Now Elinor Had Understood This, Too: A Longing For Books Was Nothing Compared With What You Could Feel For Human Beings. The Books Told You About That Feeling. The Books Spoke Of Love, And It Was Wonderful To Listen To Them, But They Were No Substitute For Love Itself. They Couldn't Kiss Her Like Meggie, They Couldn't Hug Her Like Resa, They Couldn't Laugh Like Mortimer. Poor Books, Poor Elinor.

Power. Intoxicating. Like A Fine Wine.

Everyone Is Small At Night.