This Is My Knife. It Is Very

It Is Often Difficult To Admit That Someone You Love Is Not Perfect, Or To Consider Aspects Of A Person That Are Less Than Admirable.

It Is Terribly Rude To Tell People That Their Troubles Are Boring.

The More I Protest That I'm Not Lemony Snicket, And That I'm Daniel Handler Instead, The More It Becomes Clear To The Audience That I Am In Fact Lemony Snicket, That I Am In Fact Standing In Front Of Them.

As I Am Sure You Know, When People Say 'it's My Pleasure,' They Usually Mean Something Along The Lines Of, 'there's Nothing On Earth I Would Rather Do Less.' [...]

The Burning Of A Book Is A Sad, Sad Sight, For Even Though A Book Is Nothing But Ink And Paper, It Feels As If The Ideas Contained In The Book Are Disappearing As The Pages Turn To Ashes And The Cover And Binding--which Is The Term For The Stitching And Glue That Holds The Pages Together--blacken And Curl As The Flames Do Their Wicked Work. When Someone Is Burning A Book, They Are Showing Utter Contempt For All Of The Thinking That Produced Its Ideas, All Of The Labor That Went Into Its Words And Sentences, And All Of The Trouble That Befell The Author . . .