KENNETH OPPEL

Realistically, the chance of any book becoming a film is slim.

Flying into a storm, even its outer edges, did not seem like a good idea to me. And this was no ordinary tempest. Everyone on the bridge knew what it was: the Devil's Fist, a near-eternal typhoon that migrated about the North Indian basin year-round. She was infamous, and earned her name by striking airships out of the sky.

We used to flock to watch gladiators, public torture and executions. In more recent times, our appetite for mortal violence has been sublimated in sports, photorealistic video games, film and literature.

I think good art should always be entertaining, or at least give pleasure of some sort. And my chief goal as a writer has always been to tell a good story and give my readers a good time.

When I'd written my 'Silverwing' series - I'd imbued the bats with full human awareness and vocabulary.

I wrote 'Airborn' after completing three books about bats. I loved my bats, but what a treat it was to write about humans again. They could eat food other than midges and mosquitoes, they wore clothing, they slept in beds - all this struck me as wonderfully novel.

The seed for my novel 'Half Brother' was planted in my mind over twenty years ago, but didn't germinate until late 2007 when I came across the obituary for Washoe, an extraordinary chimpanzee who had learned over 250 words of American Sign Language.

The world of 'The Hunger Games' is a paranoid survivalist's dream.

One of the reasons I wrote 'Airborn' was that I'd fallen in love with the great passenger airships which flew in the '20s and '30s. Their time was short-lived. They were frail, they tended to crash; and they could never be as fast, safe and efficient as the airplanes that replaced them.

I'm cursed with this puritanical streak that makes me want everything to be about something. It's a terrible affliction.

It's somewhat disquieting that the same parents and educators who are horrified by the notion of child soldiers have bestowed upon 'The Hunger Games' a double mantle of critical praise and global bestsellerdom.

The more I worked on 'Half Brother,' the more it seemed to me the story was really about love in all its possible forms - how and why we decide to bestow it, or withdraw it; how we decide what is more worthy of being loved, and what is less. We are masters of conditional love.

You can't eat [literature], that's the problem," he said. "I've tried, it's very dry, and not at all nutritious.

We did it!" I said, feeling limp with relief. "It actually worked!" Dr. Turgenev rubbed his forehead. "I had very big doubts." "Big doubts?" I said weakly. The Russian scientist shrugged. "I am pessimist," he said.

I raised my hands, trying to shush her. "Don't shush me," she said, eyes blazing. "I hate being shushed.

You two were in a cave together?’ said Miss Simpkins in horror. ‘Yes,’ said Kate, ‘and it was very, very dark.

The preface? Why would he waste time with the preface? Skip the preface and move on to the meat of the thing!

IMBECILE!" the chef shouted. "Next time why don't you just put your whole HAND in the food, hey? Yes, your whole hand, or maybe your FACE! I arrange the food on plates with care, are you understanding what I am telling you? It is part of the art form of cooking, yes? A lovely plate of food is a thing of beauty! And then you, NUMBSKULL, come along and put your fat greasy FINGERS all over my plate, and SHAKE the plate, and move my food all around the plate until it looks like pigs' vomit!" "Chef Vlad!" I cried out in delight.

I could not help staring back, for they made quite a contrast: Kate's pale skin and elegant purple suit, Nadira's dusky skin and exotic fiery sari. "Do we clash?" Nadira said dryly. "We certainly do," said Kate. "Would you like me to move?" "Don't trouble yourself.

Everyone watched, wondering if this could be the same lunatic who'd nearly berthed his ornithopter in the restaurant. I swallowed, for it seemed he was headed straight for my table. He pulled off his helmet and a mass of dark auburn hair spilled out. Off came the goggles, and I was looking at the beaming face of Kate de Vries.

If my heart were a compass, you'd be North.

If you were closer, I'd slap you," she said. "Let me help," I replied, and stepped closer. She promptly slapped me, which surprised me only a little. We glared at each other in the near dark, and then she looked away. "I'm sorry I slapped you," she said. "That's all right. I quite enjoyed it.

Why do you need to fly so much?” she asked. “If I don’t, it’ll catch up with me.” The words just came out. “What will?” I took my hands from my face, panting. I stared out at the storm. “Unhappiness.

Here's all I know: that the world is uncontrollable. Chaos reigns. That anything and everything might be possible. I won't subscribe to any rational system again. Nothing will bind me.

I turned around and headed back to the stairwell, planning to go downstairs and buy a chocolate bar from the vending machine. Maybe it would fall on me and end my misery.