And I Always Read The English Translation

So Mo Began Filling The Silence With Words. He Lured Them Out Of The Pages As If They Had Only Been Waiting For His Voice, Words Long And Short, Words Sharp And Soft, Cooing, Purring Words. They Danced Through The Room, Painting Stained Glass Pictures, Tickling The Skin. Even When Meggie Nodded Off She Could Still Hear Them, Although Mo Had Closed The Book Long Ago. Words That Explained The World To Her, Its Dark Side And Its Light Side, Words That Built A Wall To Keep Out Bad Dreams. And Not A Single Bad Dream Came Over That Wall For The Rest Of The Night.

So What? All Writers Are Lunatics!

Who Are You?' Mo Looked At The White Women. Then He Looked At Dustfinger's Still Face. Guess.' The Bird Ruffled Up Its Golden Feathers, And Mo Saw That The Mark On Its Breast Was Blood. You Are Death.' Mo Felt The Word Heavy On His Tongue. Could Any Word Be Heavier?

Why Did Death Make Life Taste So Much Sweeter? Why Could The Heart Love Only What It Could Also Lose?

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!