The Last Unicorn

by Peter S. Beagle

A book isn’t like ramen. Or a packet of hot chocolate. You interact with those, but they’re still separate from you. External. Independent. Anyone could pour the water and get the same thing. Books are different: A book is a kiss. A book is a dance. A story might come from a book, but the story doesn’t live there. The story lives in you. And that version of the story is different than any other version in the world because of what you bring. Because of what you think and feel. That’s unique. It’s rare and wonderful.

“No, he does not want my thoughts,” she said softly. “He wants me, as much as the Red Bull did, and with no more understanding. But he frightens me even more than the Red Bull, because he has a kind heart. No, I will never speak a promising word to him.”