Sometimes It's A Good Thing

If I Was A Book, I Would Like To Be A Library Book, So I Would Be Taken Home By All Different Sorts Of Kids.

Because By Now Elinor Had Understood This, Too: A Longing For Books Was Nothing Compared With What You Could Feel For Human Beings. The Books Told You About That Feeling. The Books Spoke Of Love, And It Was Wonderful To Listen To Them, But They Were No Substitute For Love Itself. They Couldn't Kiss Her Like Meggie, They Couldn't Hug Her Like Resa, They Couldn't Laugh Like Mortimer. Poor Books, Poor Elinor.

Sometimes Dustfinger Thought Basta's Constant Fear Of Curses And Sudden Disaster Probably Arose From His Terror Of The Darkness Within Himself, Which Made Him Assume That The Rest Of The World Must Be Exactly The Same.

From The Tower Battlements, Dustfinger Looked Down On A Lake As Black As Night, Where The Reflection Of The Castle Swam In A Sea Of Stars. The Wind Passing Over His Unscarred Face Was Cold From The Snow Of The Surrounding Mountains, And Dustfinger Relished Life As If He Were Tasting It For The First Time. The Longing It Brought, And The Desire. All The Bitterness, All The Sweetness, Even If It Was Only For A While, Never For More Than A While, Everything Gained And Lost, Lost And Found Again.

It's The Same In Real Life: Notorious Murderers Get Off Scot-free And Live Happily All Their Lives, While Good People Die - Sometimes The Very Best People. That's The Way Of The World.