The night is still young, and as I lie here in bed looking up into the darkness, a darkness so black that the ceiling is invisible, I begin to remember the story I started last night. That’s what I do when sleep refuses to come . I lie in bed and tell myself stories. They might not add up to much, but as long as I’m inside them, they prevent me from thinking about the things I would prefer to forget. Concentration can be a problem, however, and more often than not my mind eventually drifts away from the story I’m trying to tell to things I don’t want to think about. There’s nothing to be done. I fail, again and again, fail more often than I succeed, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t give it my best effort.
Books force you to give something back to them, to exercise your intelligence and imagination.
You should grieve if a fictional character is killed. You should care.