Books Are The Air I Breathe, So

We're Standing On The Deck That's All Wooden Like The Deck Of A Ship. There's Fuzz On It, Little Bundles. Grandma Says It's Some Kind Of Pollen From A Tree. "which One?" I'm Staring Up At All The Differents. "can't Help You There, I'm Afraid." In Room We Knowed What Everything Was Called But In The World There's So Much, Persons Don't Even Know The Names.

At The Door, There Was One Of Those Moment When Two People Realize That They Like Each Other More Than They Know Each Other. This Is Nicer Than The Opposite Situation, But More Awkward. You Try To Remember The Protocol For Touching. You Hate To Gush, Or Presume To Much, Yet You Are Unwilling To Let The Moment Pass Without Without Some Gesture

I Was Highly Aware, In Writing [the Book] Room, That There Are Unsavoury Aspects To Our Interest In Such Cases, And I Thought It Was Rather Honester To Include Discussion Of Media Representation In The Novel Itself Than To Cling To The High Moral Ground By Merely Avoiding Scenes Of Voyeurism, For Instance.

For All The Books In His Possession, He Still Failed To Read The Stories Written Plain As Day In The Faces Of The People Around Him.

I'm Finding That Success Is Way More Time-consuming Than Failure Ever Was.