“Why did death make life taste so much sweeter? Why could the heart love only what it could also lose?”

“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?”

“Why could she remember nothing but stories of frightened people when Capricorn looked at her? She usually found it so easy to escape somewhere else, to get right inside the minds of people and animals who existed only on paper, so why not now? Because she was afraid. "Because fear kills everything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.”

“What a coward she was after all! She tried to think of some hero out of one of her books,someone whose skin she could slip into, to make her feel stronger, bigger, braver. Why couldshe remember nothing but stories of frightened people when Capricorn looked at her? Sheusually found it so easy to escape somewhere else, to get right inside the minds of people andanimals who existed only on paper, so why not now? Because she was afraid. "Because fear killseverything," Mo had once told her. "Your mind, your heart, your imagination.”

“Thats beautiful! Sad and beautiful," murmured Meggie. Why were sad stories often so beautiful? It was different in real life.”

“She pressed her hand against her chest. No heart. So where did the love she felt come from?”

“A story wearing another dress every time you hear it - what could be better? A story that grows and puts out flowers like a living thing! But look at the stories people press in books! They may last longer, yes, but they breathe only when someone opens the book. They are sound pressed between the pages, and only a voice can bring them back to life! Then they throw off sparks, Balbulus! Then they go free as birds flying out into the world. Perhaps you're right, and the paper makes them immortal. But why should I care? Will I live on, neatly pressed between the pages with my words? Nonsense! We're none of us immortal; even the finest words don't change that, do they?”