I have just started this book, but a certain paragraph stuck with me and I would like to share it with you.
David’s mother would often tell him that stories were alive. They weren’t alive in the way that people were alive, or even dogs or cats.
Stories were different, though: they came alive in the telling. Without a human voice to read them aloud, or a pair of wide eyes following them by flashlight beneath a blanket, they had no real existence in our world. They were like seeds in the beak of of a bird, waiting to fall to earth, or the notes of a song laid out on a sheet yearning for an instrument to bring music into being. They lay dormant, hoping for a chance to emerge. They could take root in the imagination, and transform the reader. Stories wanted to be read, Davids mother would whisper. They needed it. It was the reason they forced themselves from their world into ours. They wanted us to give them life.