The night belongs to beasts of prey, and always has. It’s easy to forget that when you’re indoors, protected by light and solid walls.

She read and read and read, but she was stuffing herself with the letters on the page like an unhappy child stuffing itself with chocolate. They didn’t taste bad, but she was still unhappy.

Unlike me, he realized that Dustfinger would do anything in return for such a promise. All he wants is to go back to his own world. He doesn’t even stop to ask if his story...

Il punto è che credi troppo volentieri a ciò che vuoi credere.

Voglio dire che io fiuto le belle storie a chilometri di distanza. Quindi non tenti di nascondermene una. Sputi fuori, forza, e in cambio si guadagna una fetta di questo fantastico dolce con i buchi...

You know, it’s a funny thing about writers. Most people don’t stop to think of books being written by people much like themselves. They think that writers are all dead long ago–they don’t expect to...

All writers are insane!

Look at your daughter,’ she whispered. ‘As brave as…as..” She wanted to compare Meggie to a hero in some story but all the heroes she could think of were men, and anyway none of them...

Night was fading over the fields as if the rain had washed the darkness out of the hem of its garment.

Faccio volentieri delle promesse, specialmente quelle che non posso mantenere.

The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.

Read – and be curious. And if somebody says to you: ‘Things are this way. You can’t change it’ – don’t believe a word.

That bloody bastard! That thrice accursed son of a bitch!

Meggie thought this first whisper sounded a little different from one book to another, depending on weather or not she already knew the story it was going to tell her.

I will try to write books until I drop dead.