Mortimer's Face Twisted When The Piper Pressed

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?

And There Stood Basta With His Foot Already On Another Dead Body, Smiling. Why Not? He Had Hit His Target, And It Was The Target He Had Been Aiming For All Along: Dustfinger’s Heart, His Stupid Heart. It Broke In Two As He Held Farid In His Arms, It Simply Broke In Two, Although He Had Taken Such Good Care Of It All These Years.

I Will Try To Write Books Until I Drop Dead.

Is There Anything In The World Better Than Words On The Page? Magic Signs, The Voices Of The Dead, Building Blocks To Make Wonderful Worlds Better Than This One, Comforters, Companions In Loneliness. Keepers Of Secrets, Speakers Of The Truth...all Those Glorious Words.

You Can Not Fully Read A Book Without Being Alone. But Through This Very Solitude You Become Intimately Involved With People Whom You Might Never Have Met Otherwise, Either Because They Have Been Dead For Centuries Or Because They Spoke Languages You Cannot Understand. And, Nonetheless, They Have Become Your Closest Friends, Your Wisest Advisors, The Wizards That Hypnotize You, The Lovers You Have Always Dreamed Of. -antonio Munoz Molinas, "the Power Of The Pen