A writer never forgets the first time he accepts some coins or a praise in exchange for a story. He never forgets the first time he feels in his blood the sweet venom of vanity and believes that, if he shall be able to hide to all his lack of talent, the dream of literature may give him a roof above his head, warm food at the end of the day and above all everything he had ever desired for: his name printed on a miserable piece of paper that will surely live more than he ever shall. A writer is for ever condemned to remember that moment, because by then he is already lost and his soul already has a price.

Carlos Ruiz Zafón

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