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.
And all was well.
I was the Count of Monte Cristo, who would one day return from the terrible prison island to take revenge on all those who had sent him there. I was Napoléon, banished to die a lonely death on Saint Helena. I was Harry, locked up under the Dursleys’ staircase.
I woke up and knew he was gone. Straightaway I knew he was gone. When you love somebody you know these things. David Almond, Skellig