The only difference between him and a lion is that a lion does not laugh.

To achieve works of meaning, a writer (or any artist) must cut into himself and leave his soul on the canvas, exposed for anyone to do with what they please. Reject it. Spit on it. Swallow it whole. Whatever. It is done.

At the last moment, Antoinette came out of her faint and shouted one word to her child.That word, reader, was adieu...Adieu is the French word for farewell. “Farewell” is not the word you would like to hear from your mother as you are being led to the dungeon by two oversize mice in black hoods... “Farewell” is a word that, in any language, is full of sorrow. It is a word that promises absolutely nothing.

Just now they kissed, with India coming up close on her toes to see if she could tell yet what there was about a kiss.

The chair in the police station was uncomfortable and I couldn’t sit in it. It was a cheap looking chair in a cheap looking room meant for people who are wrong.

Indentations on the page, words, my friends, and I will share them with you.

I understand now that a Trojan of literary achievement writes out of passion, out of necessity.

Furlough?” He said.“What?” said the first hood irritably. Despereaux shuddered. His own brother was delivering him to the dungeon. His heart stopped beating and shrunk to a small, cold, disbelieving pebble.

I live, love and loathe my characters. They stole my mind. They stole my heart.

They lived happily ever after. It said so. In the book. They were the last words on the page. Happily ever after. Despereaux was sure that he had read exactly those words time and time again.Lying on the floor with the drum beating and the mice shouting... Despereaux had a sudden, chilling thought: Had some other mouse eaten the words that spoke the truth? Did the knight and the fair maiden really not live happily ever after?