Diana Wynne Jones

Sophie listened and felt sad. Interesting things did seem to happen, but always to somebody else.

“If he is, you’ll never pin him down,” Michael answered. “He hates being pinned down to anything.”

“Howl’s very fickle,” said Calcifer. “He’s only interested until the girl falls in love with him. Then he can’t be bothered with her.”

On the other hand, it is quite a risk to spank a wizard for getting hysterical about his hair.

“Annoyed?” said Sophie. “Why should I be annoyed? Someone only filled the castle with rotten aspic, and deafened everyone in Porthaven, and scared Calcifer to a cinder, and broke a few hundred hearts. Why should that annoy me?”

Then he stood up. “I feel ill,” he announced. “I’m going to bed, where I may die.” He tottered piteously to the stairs. “Bury me beside Mrs. Pentstemmon,” he croaked as he went up them to bed

Howl coughed piteously. “I shall go in disguise, probably as another corpse,” he said, trailing back toward the stairs

I wondered whether to ask her if she would mind everywhere being covered with green slime when Howl’s hair went wrong; or if she minded coping with a man who had head colds like a drama queen; or being twisted round Howl’s little finger; or would it worry her that the man was a terrible coward; or always falling in love with other women;

“I did, you old fraud!” Howl said wearily. “You know everything I know.”

“Go to bed, you fool,” Calcifer said sleepily. “You’re drunk.”

“Who, me?” said Howl. “I assure you, my friends, I am cone sold stober.”