Wasn't There A Spell For Making Yourself

Genuinely Social People Never Ceased To Amaze Him. Their Brains Seemed To Generate An Inexhaustible Fund Of Things To Say, Naturally, With No Effort, Out Of Nothing At All.

The Danger Would Be Going Back, Or Staying Still. The Only Way Out Was Through. The Past Was Ruins, But The Present Was Still In Play.

I'm Not One Of Your Knockabout, Knuckle-scarred, Internet-controversy-courting Book Critics. Occasionally I Stumble Into Controversy Accidentally, But Not Because I Enjoy It. It's Probably Just Because I'm A Weird Person.

The Main Advantage Of Being A Reviewer Is That You Read A Lot. A Lot Of Books Get Sent To You, And You Have An Amazing Vantage Point From Which To Observe What's Going On In Contemporary Fiction - Not Only Genre Stuff, The Whole Spectrum.

That’s What Death Did, It Treated You Like A Child, Like Everything You Had Ever Thought And Done And Cared About Was Just A Child’s Game, To Be Crumpled Up And Thrown Away When It Was Over. It Didn’t Matter. Death Didn’t Respect You. Death Thought You Were Bullshit, And It Wanted To Make Sure You Knew It.