Pain Is Not Wat You Get, It

Part Of The Beauty Of Fiction Is That We Come Alive In A Body That We Don't Own.

Sometimes We Just Walk Into Something That Is Not For Us At All. We Pretend It Is. We Think We Can Shrug It Off Like A Coat, But It's Not A Coat At All, It's More Like Another Skin. [...] All I Wanted Was To Make My Life Thrilling For A While: To Take The Oridinary Objects Of My Days And Make A Different Argument Out Of Them, No Obligations To My Past.

Whenever Summer Rolls Around I Begin To Realize That I'm A Complete And Utter Book Snob. In Relation To Reading, I Have Absolutely No Guilty Pleasures At All. No Graphic Novels. No Murder Mysteries. My Summer Read Is Really No Different From My Winter Read. I Know Many Bookshops And Magazines Would Have Me Believe That Our Summer Forays Are Different, But Literature Is Literature, And Unfortunately Snobbery Is Snobbery.

I Told Him That I Loved Him And That I'd Always Love Him And I Felt Like A Child Who Throws A Centavo Into A Fountain And Then She Has To Tell Someone Her Most Extraordinary Wish Even Though She Knows That The Wish Should Be Kept Secret And That, In Telling It, She Is Quite Probably Losing It. He Replied That I Was Not To Worry, That The Penny Could Come Out Of The Fountain Again And Again And Again.

It Was A Silence That Heard Itself, Awful And Beautiful.