Strong Delusions Travel Like Cold Germs On

It Had That Comfortably Sprung, Lived-in Look That Library Books With A Lively Circulation Always Get; Bent Page Corners, A Dab Of Mustard On Page 331, A Whiff Of Some Reader's Spilled After-dinner Whiskey On Page 468. Only Library Books Speak With Such Wordless Eloquence Of The Power Good Stories Hold Over Us, How Good Stories Abide, Unchanged And Mutely Wise, While We Poor Humans Grow Older And Slower.

Sometimes When You're Young, You Have Moments Of Such Happiness, You Think You're Living On Someplace Magical, Like Atlantis Must Have Been. Then We Grow Up And Our Hearts Break Into Two.

I Do Not Aim With My Hand; He Who Aims With His Hand Has Forgotten The Face Of His Father. I Aim With My Eye. I Do Not Shoot With My Hand; He Who Shoots With His Hand Has Forgotten The Face Of His Father. I Shoot With My Mind. I Do Not Kill With My Gun; He Who Kills With His Gun Has Forgotten The Face Of His Father. I Kill With My Heart.

If I Cannot Horrify, I'll Go For The Gross Out. I'm Not Proud.

I'm Convinced That Fear Is At The Root, Of All Bad Writing