I libri la rincuoravano quando era triste e scacciavano la noia mentre Mo tagliava, rilegava, incollava pagine ormai logore, rese fragili da anni e anni d’uso sotto le innumerevoli dita che le avevano sfogliate.
Power. Intoxicating. Like a fine wine.
Weren’t all books ultimately related? After all, the same letters filled them, just arranged in a different order. Which meant that, in a certain way, every book was contained in every other!
How fast the ears learned to tell what sounds meant, much faster than it took the eyes to decipher written words.
I’m perfectly happy to know the world at secondhand. It’s a lot safer.
Where did the love come from? What was it made of?
Nobody loves only once.
Reality is a fragile thing.
What a plague love is!
It’s a cruel world, don’t you think?
It’s the same in real life: Notorious murderers get off scot-free and live happily all their lives, while good people die – sometimes the very best people. That’s the way of the world.
My children were all made from paper and printer’s ink...
Mo could paint pictures in the empty air with his voice alone.
The night swallowed him up like a thieving fox.
Beauty and fear make uneasy companions.
He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth. His skin was wet with rain. When she didn’t pull away, he took her face between his hands and kissed her again, on her forehead, on her nose, on her mouth once more. “You will come, won’t you? Promisse!” he whispered.
Dustfinger closed his eyes and listened. He was home again.
The night belongs to beasts of prey, and always has. It’s easy to forget that when you’re indoors, protected by light and solid walls.
Farid had brought an invisible guest with him. Fear.
Believe, believe, believe.
There could be few men whose love for a woman had been written on his face with a knife.