“This is a bad story.”“Sorry. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have told you.”“No, you should,” I say.“But—”“I don’t want there to be bad stories and me not know them.”

“I was beautiful, or so my father told me. My oval mirror showed me a face with nothing written on it. I had suitors aplenty but wanted none of them: their doggish devotion seemed too easily won. I had an appetite for magic, even then. I wanted something improbably and perfect as a red rose just opening.”

“Everyone's got a different story.”

“Stories are a different kind of true.”

“You know who you belong to, Jack?”“Yeah.”“Yourself.”He’s wrong, actually, I belong to Ma.”

“I chop the broccoli into pieces with ZigZag Knife, sometimes I swallow some when Ma's not looking and she says, "Oh, no, where's that big bit gone?" but she's not really mad because raw things make us extra alive.”

“And the flames are every colour of the rainbow.""They can't be," observed Daffy."Well, they are," she said cheekily. "Have you been there, that you know so much about it?""No," said Daffy, very calm, "but I'd wager I know more than you about the chemical processes of combustion."Mary rolled her eyes. Did he hope to dazzle her with syllables?”