The Night Belongs To Beasts Of Prey,

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.

Where Did The Love Come From? What Was It Made Of?

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

Since When Does The Butterfly Ask About The Caterpillar?

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.