“I should like to write my books only for the dear person who lies awake reading in bed until page last, then lets the open book fall gently on her face, to touch her smile or drink her tears.”

“Dear Diary,All that she left inside the box was a blank book and a name. You are the book, and I am the name...An-Ya. As you know, my name is printed on your first page. Did She write it? What did She look like as She stood over you with Her pen? Were there tears in Her eyes? Why were you left empty inside?”

“I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book. Shall I? No-a journal ought not to cheat.”

“Turning her face away from him, she let the tears fall at last. They were carried away on the wind as if they'd never been. Much like her.”

“I ripped the page from my book - "I don't speak, I'm sorry." - and used it to dry her cheeks, my explanation and apology ran down her face like mascara.”

“Green goo bubbles in a cauldron in the center of all this chaos. On a pedestal in front of it, a book is open. The old lady leans over the book so it almost touches her nose and peers at the page. “Marshmallows. No, that can’t be right. Jason,” she shrills. “Read this for me.”“Marjoram,” Jason reads.”