“As Mo had said: writing stories is a kind of magic, too.”

“Writing stories is a kind of magic, too.”

“Killing is easy," said Mo, "Dying is harder...”

“Come Mo aveva detto un giorno, scrivere storie, in fin dei conti, ha un po' a che fare con la magia.”

“Isn't it odd how much fatter a book gets when you've read it several times?" Mo had said..."As if something were left between the pages every time you read it. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells...and then, when you look at the book again many years later, you find yourself there, too, a slightly younger self, slightly different, as if the book had preserved you like a pressed flower...both strange and familiar.”

“Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.”

“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!”