Being Smart Spoils A Lot Of Things,

In The Vaults Of Our Hearts And Brains, Danger Waits. All The Chambers Are Not Lovely, Light And High. There Are Holes In The Floor Of The Mind, Like Those In A Medieval Dungeon Floor - The Stinking Oubliettes, Named For Forgetting, Bottle-shaped Cells In Solid Rock With The Trapdoor In The Top. Nothing Escapes From Them Quietly To Ease Us. A Quake, Some Betrayal By Our Safeguards, And Sparks Of Memory Fire The Noxious Gases - Things Trapped For Years Fly Free, Ready To Explode In Pain And Drive Us To Dangerous Behavior.

We Rarely Get To Prepare Ourselves In Meadows Or On Graveled Walks; We Do It On Short Notice In Places Without Windows, Hospital Corridors, Rooms Like This Lounge With Its Cracked Plastic Sofa And Cinzano Ashtrays, Where The Cafe Curtains Cover Blank Concrete. In Rooms Like This, With So Little Time, We Prepare Our Gestures, Get Them By Heart So We Can Do Them When We're Frightened In The Face Of Doom.

It Occured To Starling How Much Roden Would Benefit From An Elbow Smash In The Hinge Of His Jaw.

I Expect Most Psychiatrists Have A Patient Or Two They'd Like To Refer To Me.

Good-bye Clarice. Will You Let Me Know If Ever The Lambs Stop Screaming?" "yes." Pembry Was Taking Her Arm. It Was Go Or Fight Him. "yes," She Said. "i'll Tell You." "do You Promise?""yes.