Books Are Always Obviously Having Conversations With

We Would Never Call Inexplicable Little Insights Hunches, For Fear Of Drawing The Universe's Attention. But They Happened, And You Knew You Had Been In The Proximity Of One That Had Come Through If You Saw A Detective Kiss His Or Her Fingers And Touch His Or Her Chest Where A Pendant To Warsha, Patron Saint Of Inexplicable Inspirations, Would, Theoretically, Hang.

I'll Tell You, I've Never Particularly Been A Trek Person. I Feel About Trek The Way One Feels About Known, Vaguely Liked, But Rather Distant Members Of One's Family.

It Had Not Been A Long Journey, But The Memory Of It Filled Her Like An Infection. She Had Felt Tethered By Time To The City Behind Her, So That The Minutes Stretched Out Taut As She Moved Away, And Slowed The Farther She Got, Dragging Out Her Little Voyage.

There's Plenty Of Stuff That I Don't Feel Dissident About: I Really Like Tea, I Don't Have Any Problem With That. I Like Lots Of Paintings.

There Are Only So Many Ways To Experience Pain. There Are An Almost Limitless Number Of Ways To Inflict It, But The Pain Itself, Initially Vividly Distinct In All Its Specifications, Becomes, Inevitably, Just Pain.