It may happen that one may write some messy and useless things (this happens often) without realizing it or without wanting to realize it, which is quite possible, because paper is a far too tolerant material. You can write over it any vastness, and it doesn't protest: it isn't like the wood in the armours of mine shafts, that creaks when it's overloaded.
Every reader, as he reads, is actually the reader of himself. The writer's work is only a kind of optical instrument he provides the reader so he can discern what he might never have seen in himself without this book.
Stay crazy and behave like normal people.
Sin wasn't born the day Eve picked the apple. That day a splendid virtue was born called disobendience.
As he lay there, he became aware suddenly
that the grounds were silent. Fawkes had stopped singing. And he knew, without knowing how he knew it, that ilie phoenix had gone, had left Hogwarts for good, just as Dumbledore had left the school, had left the world...had left Harry.
But some part of him realized, even as he fought to break free from Lupin, that Sirius had never kept him waiting before. Sirius had risked everything, always, to see Harry, to help him. If Sirius was not reappearing out of that archway when Harry was yelling for him as though his life depended on it, the only possible explanation was that he could not come back... that he really was...
The green eyes found the black, but after a second, something in the depths of the dark pair seemed to vanish, leaving them fixed, blank, and empty. The hand holding Harry thudded to the floor, and Snape moved no more.
He choose his road, but he kept looking back.
I love him better than myself Ellen; and I know it by this: I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would rather be miserable than that he should be: that proves I love him better than myself.
"You really haven't read any of these books?" He asked.
"Books are boring"
"Books are mirrors: they reflect what we have within".