So It's Happened, I Kept Thinking, You're

Because By Now Elinor Had Understood This, Too: A Longing For Books Was Nothing Compared With What You Could Feel For Human Beings. The Books Told You About That Feeling. The Books Spoke Of Love, And It Was Wonderful To Listen To Them, But They Were No Substitute For Love Itself. They Couldn't Kiss Her Like Meggie, They Couldn't Hug Her Like Resa, They Couldn't Laugh Like Mortimer. Poor Books, Poor Elinor.

Sometimes, When You’re Sad You Don’t Know What To Do, It Helps To Be Angry. But Then The Tears Come Back Again All The Same, And You Fall Asleep With The Salty Taste Of Them On Your Lips.

Desperate? So What? I'm Desperate, Too!" Fenoglio Snapped At Her. "my Story Is Foundering In Misfortune, And These Hands Here," He Said Holding Them Out To Her, "don't Want To Write Anymore! I'm Afraid Of Words Meggie! 'once They Were Like Honey, Now They're Poison, Pure Poison! But What Is A Writer Who Doesn't Love Words Anymore? What Have I Come To? This Story Is Devouring Me, Crushing Me, And I'm It's Creator!

Only In Books Could You Find Pity, Comfort, Happiness And Love.

Words Were Useless. At Times, They Might Sound Wonderful, But They Let You Down The Moment You Really Needed Them. You Could Never Find The Right Words, Never, And Where Would You Look For Them? The Heart Is As Silent As A Fish, However Much The Tongue Tries To Give It A Voice.