Writing Stories Is A Kind Of Magic,

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.

She Always Did Like Tales Of Adventure-stories Full Of Brightness And Darkness. She Could Tell You The Names Of All King Arthur's Knights, And She Knew Everything About Beowulf And Grendel, The Ancient Gods And The Not-quite-so-ancient Heroes. She Liked Pirate Stories, Too, But Most Of All She Loved Books That Had At Least A Knight Or A Dragon Or A Fairy In Them. She Was Always On The Dragon's Side By The Way.

Stories Never Really End...even If The Books Like To Pretend They Do. Stories Always Go On. They Don't End On The Last Page, Any More Than They Begin On The First Page.

It Was Much Easier For Him Now That He Was Smaller To Negotiate His Way Through His Crammed Shop But He Still Tried To Swagger Past The Shelves Like He Used To In The Past. The Attempt Looked So Strange That Scipio Started To Mimic Him Behind His Back. "what's The Silly Giggling About?" Barbarossa Asked When Prosper And Renzo Bust Out Laughing.

She Had Found Him And Was Bringing Back His Thanks. Nor Did She Forget To Mention That He Had Assured Her That She Was Indeed The Most Beautiful Fairy He Had Ever Set Eyes On.