That is surely the truth, at least for now. But perhaps you have not noticed: the truth is forever changing.
The sound of the king’s music made Despereaux’s soul grow large and light inside of him.
Allow me to congratulate you on your very astute powers of observation.
Rats have a sense of humor. Rats, in fact think the world is very funny. And they are right, dear reader. They are right.
Love is ridiculous. But love is also wonderful. And powerful. And Despereaux’s love for the Princess Pea would prove, in time, to be all of these things: powerful, wonderful, and ridiculous.
We must ask ourselves these questions as often as we dare. How will the world change if we do not question it?
I will be brave, thought Despereaux. I will try to be brave like a knight in shining armour. I will be brave for the Princess Pea.
Pea was aware suddenly of how fragile her heart was, how much darkness was inside it, fighting, always, with the light. She did not like the rat. She would neverlike the rat, but she knew what she must do to save her own heart.
At least Lester had the decency to weep at his act of perfidy. Reader, do you know what ‘perfidy’ means? I have a feeling you do, based on the scene that unfolded here. But you should look up the word in your dictionary, just to be sure.
He was reading from the beginning so that he could get to the end, where the reader was assured that the knight and the fair maiden lived together happily ever after.
And so he was reading the story as if it were a spell and the words of it, spoken aloud, could make magic happen.
In a dark time, doors will sometimes magically open and let us step inside to the warmth and light of a community.
All of God’s creatures have names, every last one of them. Of that I am sure: of that I have no doubt at all.
Have you, in truth, ever seen something so heartbreakingly lovely? What are we to make of a world where stars shine bright in the midst of so much darkness and gloom?
Things are not at all what they seem to be: oh no, not at all.
Longing is not always a reciprocal thing.
Life was so short; so many beautiful things slipped away.
There are hearts, reader, that never mend again once they are broken. Or if they do mend, they heal themselves in a crooked and lopsided way, as if sewn together by a careless craftsman.
You are down there alone, the stars seemed to say to him. And we are up here, in our constellations, together.
There is no right or wrong way to tell a story. You have to find your own way. You can get your idea from listening, looking, or imagining. Stories are everywhere. All you have to do is pay attention.