Power. Intoxicating. Like A Fine Wine.

Where Did The Love Come From? What Was It Made Of?

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!

The Books In Mo And Meggie's House Were Stacked Under Tables, On Chairs, In The Corners Of The Rooms. There Where Books In The Kitchen And Books In The Lavatory. Books On The Tv Set And In The Closet, Small Piles Of Books, Tall Piles Of Books, Books Thick And Thin, Books Old And New. They Welcomed Meggie Down To Breakfast With Invitingly Opened Pages; They Kept Boredom At Bay When The Weather Was Bad. And Sometimes You Fall Over Them.

You Know What They Say: When People Start Burning Books They'll Soon Burn Human Beings.

My Grandmother Told Stories; She Was Very Good At That.