Dead Women Tell No Tales. Sad Men

I Had Written Eight Drafts Of The Lemony Snicket' Screenplay When This Changing-of-the-guard Thing Happened, And I Said To The New Producers, "i Don't Think I Could Write Any More Drafts." I Guess I Was Sort Of Hoping They Would Say, "well That's Okay, This Last One Is Perfect." But Instead, They Said, "it's Funny You Should Say That. We Don't Think You Can Write Any More Drafts Either."

Everyone, At Some Point In Their Lives, Wakes Up In The Middle Of The Night With The Feeling That They Are All Alone In The World, And That Nobody Loves Them Now And That Nobody Will Ever Love Them, And That They Will Never Have A Decent Night's Sleep Again And Will Spend Their Lives Wandering Blearily Around A Loveless Landscape, Hoping Desperately That Their Circumstances Will Improve, But Suspecting, In Their Heart Of Hearts, That They Will Remain Unloved Forever. The Best Thing To Do In These Circumstances Is To Wake Somebody Else Up, So That They Can Feel This Way, Too.

Every Time You Enter A Library You Might Say To Yourself, "the World Is Quiet Here," As A Sort Of Pledge Proclaiming Reading To Be The Greater Good.

This Story Is About The Baudelaires. And They Are The Sort Of People Who Know That There’s Always Something. Something To Invent, Something To Read, Something To Bite, And Something To Do, To Make A Sanctuary, No Matter How Small. And For This Reason, I Am Happy To Say, The Baudelaires Were Very Fortunate Indeed.

The Difference Between A House And A Home Is Like The Difference Between A Man And A Woman-- It Might Be Embarrassing To Explain, But It Would Be Very Unusual To Get Them Confused.