Mr. Rochester grunted. “Miss Eyre, listen to me. I believe there is a string below your rib, and it stretches across class and age to me, and it is attached beneath my rib. And if you find another suitable position, and leave me, you will pull it out. And I will bleed.
When you predict the future, when you do so strongly and you cling to it, how much of that future do you then cause to happen?
That’s the duty of the old,’ said the Librarian, ‘to be anxious on the behalf of the young. And the duty of the young is to scorn the anxiety of the old.’ They sat for a while longer, and then parted, for it was late, and they were old and anxious.
Their father was murdered. They don’t know one of their closest friends is really their enemy… And he’ll stop at nothing to get the key to the black door. The other keys have the power to save them. This is where they’ll make their stand.
Stories have a way of changing faces. They are unruly things, undisciplined, given to delinquency and the throwing of erasers. This is why we must close them up into thick, solid books, so they cannot get out and cause trouble.
Kids always think they’re coming into a story at the beginning, when usually they’re coming in at the end.
Their memories crowd the edges of my mind, the weight of them almost too much to bear. I want everything they want. I feel their aches and am made timid by their fears. I’m no longer a man, I’m a chorus.