Благодаря профессии отца Мегги не раз знакомилась с людьми, которые любили книги, продавали их, собирали, печатали или, подобно её отцу, уберегали их от тлена, но никогда ещё она не встречала человека...
Night. Sometimes, yes, Meggie had said. But it only works for children. Which made Mo tweak her nose. Mo. Meggie had never called her father anything else. That night—when so much began and so many th...
Forget them, or the loss of them all will drive you mad. But his heart simply did not obey. Memories, so sweet and so bitter … they had both nourished and devoured him for so many years. Until a time...
[She] did not reply. She didn't want to talk to anyone. She just wanted to listen to what her bewildered heart was telling her.
When the heart craved something so forcefully, then reason became nothing but helpless observer.
What was this yearning, tearing at her insides like hunger and thirst? It couldn't be love. Love was warm and soft, like a bed of leaves. But this was dark, like the shade under a poisonous shrub, and...
Was she happy? Yes. And no. Because now the words were back, and with them the name that had spun gold around her heart for so long she hardly remembered how things had felt before him.
They had gone. Had left him alone with all the blue, that clashed with the red of fire. Blue as the evening sky, blue as cranesbill flowers, blue as the lips of drowned men and the heart of a blaze bu...
There was another reason [she] took her books whenever they went away. They were her home when she was somewhere strange. They were familiar voices, friends that never quarreled with her, clever, powe...
There is a sort of busy worm, That will the fairest book deform. Their tasteless tooth will tear and taint The poet, patriot, sage or saint, Nor sparing wit nor learning. Now, if you’d know the reason...
The night breathed through the apartment like a dark animal. The ticking of a clock. The groan of a floorboard as he slipped out of his room. All was drowned by its silence. But Jacob loved the night....
Sometimes, when I went to the spring to wash early in the morning, he murmured, there'd be tiny fairies flitting around above the water, not much bigger than the butterflies you have here, and blue as...
So what? All writers are lunatics!
Sai bene come finiscono gli eroi. Non hanno né mogli né figli, e non diventano vecchi.
Perhaps the story now goes on beyond the book.
Os livros poderiam ensiná-la tanto sobre este mundo e outros lugares distantes, sobre animais e plantas, sobre estrelas! Podiam ser janelas e portas, asas de papel para ajudá-la a voar para bem longe.
Orpheus. Had the name he had taken ever suited him better? But he would be wilier than the singer whose name he had stolen. He would indeed. He would send another man into the realm of Death in the Fi...
Oh yes, he was an idiot. He’d always been frightened by how much he needed her. And now it was too late.
My wife loves written words ... you know, words that stick to parchment and paper like dead flies, and it seems my father felt the same - but I want to hear words! Remember that when you are looking f...
Meggie looked up at the dense thicket of branches. She had never set eyes on a tree like it before. The bark was reddish brown, but as rough as the bark of an oak, and the trunk did not branch until h...