Once there was a princess who was very beautiful. She shone bright as the stars on a moonless night. But what difference did it make that she was beautiful? None. No difference."
Why did it make no difference?" asked Abilene.
Because," said Pellegrina, "She was a princess who loved no one and cared nothing for love, even though there were many who loved her.
Stories are light. Light is precious in a world so dark. Begin at the beginning. Tell Gregory a story. Make some light.
Kate DiCamilloTags: stories dark darkness light story
He was weeping. Although 'weeping' really is to small a word for the activity the kind had undertaken. Tears were cascading from his eyes. A small puddle had formed at his feet. I am not exaggerating. The king, it seemed, was intent on crying himself a river.
Kate DiCamilloDespereaux marveled at his own bravery.
He admired his own defiance.
And then, reader, he fainted.
At least Lester had the decency to weep at his act of perfidy. Reader, do you know what 'perfidy' means? I have a feeling you do, based on the scene that unfolded here. But you should look up the word in your dictionary, just to be sure.
Kate DiCamilloAt the thought of being eaten by rats, Despereaux forgot about being brave. He forgot about not being a disappointment. He felt himself heading into another faint. But his mother, who had an excellent sense of dramatic timing, beat him to it; she executed a beautiful, flawless swoon, landing right at Despereaux's feet.
Kate DiCamilloThere is nothing sweeter in this sad world than the sound of someone you love calling your name.
Kate DiCamilloYou can't always judge people by the things they done. You got to judge them by what they are doing now.
Kate DiCamilloTags: inspirational
We appreciate the complicated and wonderful gifts you give us in each other. And we appreciate the task you put down before us, of loving each other the best we can, even as you love us.
Kate DiCamilloTags: inspirational
There are those hearts, reader, that never mend again once they are broken. Or if they do mend, they heal themselves in a crooked and lopsided way, as if sewn together by a careless craftsman. Such was the fate of Chiaroscuro. His heart was broken. Picking up the spoon and placing it on his head, speaking of revenge, these things helped him to put his heart together again. But it was, alas, put together wrong.
Kate DiCamilloTags: meditation
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