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.
She was gone. And his heart was beating too loud and too fast. Into nothingness.
Dustfinger inspected his reddened fingers and felt the taut skin. ‘He might tell me how my story ends,’ he murmured.
Meggie looked at him in astonishment. ‘You mean you don’t know?’
Dustfinger smiled. Meggie still didn’t particularly like his smile. It seemed to appear only to hide something else. ‘What’s so unusual about that, princess?’ he asked quietly. ‘Do you know how your story ends?’
Meggie had no answer for that.
Look. (Grown-ups skip this paragraph.) I’m not about to tell you this book has a tragic ending, I already said in the very first line how it was my favorite in all the world. But there’s a lot of bad stuff coming. William Goldman, The Princess Bride
Farid callaba. Sus oídos amaban la voz de Lengua de Brujo. Era la voz que lo había sacado de su otra vida mísera, pero amaba más a Dedo Polvoriento, sin saber por qué.
Un lettore non vede veramente i personaggi di una storia. Li sente.
The written word is a powerful thing, you have to be careful with it.
You’d like him back, too, wouldn’t you?”
It was difficult for her to turn her eyes away from Farid’s face. “He’ll never come back,” she whispered, and look at Dustfinger. She didn’t have the strength to speak any louder. All her strength was gone, as if Farid had taken it away with him. He had taken everything away from him.
Oh, pestiferous parasols!
Books loved anyone who opened them, they gave you security and friendship and didn’t ask for anything in return; they never went away, never, not even when you treated them badly.