The Truth's Not Pretty Of Course. No

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

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

There Could Be Few Men Whose Love For A Woman Had Been Written On His Face With A Knife.

The World Was A Terrible Place, Cruel, Pitiless, Dark As A Bad Dream. Not A Good Place To Live. Only In Books Could You Find Pity, Comfort, Happiness - And Love. Books Loved Anyone Who Opened Them, They Gave You Security And Friendship And Didn't Ask Anything In Return; They Never Went Away, Never, Not Even When You Treated Them Badly.

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?