No One Knew About The Squirrel’s Skull

The Cost Of Oblivius Daydreaming Was Always This Moment Of Return, The Realigment With What Had Been Before And Now Seemed A Little Worse. Her Reverie, Once Rich In Plausible Details, Had Become A Passing Silliness Before The Hard Mass Of The Actual. It Was Difficult To Come Back.

Let The Guilty Bury The Innocent, And Let No One Change The Evidence

I Believe The Novella Is The Perfect Form Of Prose Fiction. It Is The Beautiful Daughter Of A Rambling, Bloated Ill-shaven Giant (but A Giant Who's A Genius On His Best Days).

One Has To Have The Courage Of One's Pessimism.

How Easily This Unthinking Family Love Was Forgotten.