I Know That Part Of The Reason

You Know, It's A Truism That Writers For Children Must Still Be Children Themselves, Deep Down, Must Still Feel Childish Feelings, And A Child's Surprise At The World.

I Think The Virtue I Prize Above All Others Is Curiosity.

She Didn't Like To Be Talked About. Equally, She Didn't Like Not To Be Talked About, When The High-minded Chatter Rushed On As Though She Was Not There. There Was No Pleasing Her, In Fact. She Had The Grace, Even At Eleven, To Know There Was No Pleasing Her. She Thought A Lot, Analytically, About Other People's Feelings, And Had Only Just Begun To Realize That This Was Not Usual, And Not Reciprocated.

She Devoured Stories With Rapacious Greed, Ranks Of Black Marks On White, Sorting Themselves Into Mountains And Trees, Stars, Moons And Suns, Dragons, Dwarfs, And Forests Containing Wolves, Foxes And The Dark.

He Felt Changed, But There Was No One To Tell.