The Heart Was A Weak, Changeable Thing,

Perhaps The Story In The Book Is Just The Lid On A Pan: It Always Stays The Same, But Underneath There's A Whole World That Goes On - Developing And Changing Like Our Own World.

Please," She Whispered As She Opened The Book, "please Get Me Out Of Here Just For An Hour Or So, Please Take Me Far, Far Away

Perhaps There's Another, Much Larger Story Behind The Printed One, A Story That Changes Just As Our Own World Does. And The Letters On The Page Tell Us Only As Much As We'd See Peering Through A Keyhole. Perhaps The Story In The Book Is Just The Lid On A Pan: It Always Stays The Same, But Underneath There's A Whole World That Goes On - Developing And Changing Like Our Own World.

You Know What They Say: When People Start Burning Books They'll Soon Burn Human Beings.

Blue As The Evening Sky, Blue As Cranesbill Flowers, Blue As The Lips Of Drowned Men And The Heart Of A Blaze Burning With Too Hot A Flame. Yes, Sometimes It Was Hot In This World, Too. Hot And Cold, Light And Dark, Terrible And Beautiful, It Was Everything All At Once. It Wasn't True That You Felt Nothing In The Land Of Death. You Felt And Heard And Smelled And Saw, But Your Heart Remained Strangely Calm, As If It Were Resting Before The Dance Began Again. Peace. Was That The Word?