The Library of the Unwritten

A soul may not die, but cease to exist.”

“That’s not so bad,” Leto muttered before he realized he’d said it. He looked up to see Hero and Claire staring at him with matching alarm. “I mean, no! Not us, of course. I meant . . .” He stopped, not sure what he’d meant, but the terrible thought had come to him too fast to be one he hadn’t had before.

Books are a strange kind of magic in this Library

but Claire lived by the firm moral philosophy that one could never have too many pockets, too many books, or too much tea

Claire groaned as she squinted at the paperwork. “It’s always the Americans.”

There’s nothing stronger than an unwritten book’s fascination with its author. But a book that finds its author often comes back damaged, and the author comes out . . . worse.”

Stories were never tidy, but it was important to keep up appearances

You’re not human.” The words snapped out before Claire could censor them. The girl reacted as if she’d been slapped, and curled into the shelves.

Claire took a measured breath between gritted teeth. “You can’t be scared. You’re not human—let’s not pretend otherwise. You’re a very cunning approximation, but you’re simply a manifestation, a character. A book playing at human . . . But you’re not. And books belong on shelves.”

but now and then a book woke up. Felt it had a purpose beyond words on a page. Then the story made itself into one of its characters and went walking.

No story, written or unwritten, is static. Left abandoned too long and given the right stimulation, a book goes wrong in the head. It is a story’s natural ambition to wake up and start telling itself to the world.

The accommodations were a little sparse for my tastes.