Reality Is A Fragile Thing.

What A Plague Love Is!

Perhaps Because This Time Not Fear But Love Made Him Read.

The Book She Had Been Reading Was Under Her Pillow, Pressing Its Cover Against Her Ear As If To Lure Her Back Into Its Printed Pages.

The Heart Was A Weak, Changeable Thing, Bent On Nothing But Love, And There Could Be No More Fatal Mistake Than To Make It Your Master. Reason Must Be In Charge. It Comforted You For The Heart's Foolishness, It Sang Mocking Songs About Love, Derided It As A Whim Of Nature, Transient As Flowers. So Why Did She Still Keep Following Her Heart?

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