We Are All Eaters Of Souls.

I Now Understand The Need For Faith - Pure, Blind, Fly-in-the-face-of-reason Faith - As A Small Life Preserver In The Wild And Endless Sea Of A Universe Ruled By Unfeeling Laws And Totally Indifferent To The Small, Reasoning Beings That Inhabit It.

Wilkie Collins Was A Rival And Competitor Of Dickens. His Novel Moonstone Sold More Copies At The Time Than Dickens' Last Two Books. But That Meant Nothing In The Long Run. Right Now, To Be Honest, Wilkie Collins Is What He Deserved To Be Back Then: A Footnote, An Almost Lost Memory. And He Knew He Would Become That.

She Had Always Felt That The Essence Of Human Experience Lay Not Primarily In The Peak Experiences, The Wedding Days And Triumphs Which Stood Out In The Memory Like Dates Circled In Red On Old Calendars, But, Rather, In The Unself-conscious Flow Of Little Things - The Weekend Afternoon With Each Member Of The Family Engaged In His Or Her Own Pursuit, Their Crossings And Connections Casual, Dialogues Imminently Forgettable, But The Sum Of Such Hours Creating A Synergy Which Was Important And Eternal.

Anticlimax Is, Of Course, The Warp And Way Of Things. Real Life Seldom Structures A Decent Denouement.

The Truth Is, It's Not A Great Career Move To Create A Readership And Then, In Effect, Abandon Them.