Nobody Knows Anything.

I'm Not Witch. I'm Your Wife.

Westly, Westly, Westly, Westly, Westly,--darling Westly, Adored Westly, Sweet Perfect Westly, Whisper That I Have A Chance To Win Your Love." And With That, She Dared The Bravest Thing She'd Ever Done: She Looked Right Into His Eyes. He Closed The Door In Her Face.

Westley Closed His Eyes. There Was Pain Coming And He Had To Be Ready For It. He Had To Prepare His Brain, He Had To Get His Mind Controlled And Safe From Their Efforts, So That They Could Not Break Him. He Would Not Let Them Break Him. He Would Hold Together Against Anything And All. If Only They Gave Him Sufficient Time To Make Ready, He Knew He Could Defeat Pain. It Turned Out They Gave Him Sufficient Time (it Was Months Before The Machine Was Ready). But They Broke Him Anyway.

Writing Is Finally About One Thing: Going Into A Room Alone And Doing It. Putting Words On Paper That Have Never Been There In Quite That Way Before. And Although You Are Physically By Yourself, The Haunting Demon Never Leaves You, That Demon Being The Knowledge Of Your Own Terrible Limitations, Your Hopeless Inadequacy, The Impossibility Of Ever Getting It Right. No Matter How Diamond-bright Your Ideas Are Dancing In Your Brain, On Paper They Are Earthbound.

Existence Was Really Very Simple When You Did What You Were Told.