We Become The Stories We Tell Ourselves

It's The World, You Live In It, Even If Some Boy Has Made A Fool Of You.

He Insists On A Version Of You That Is Funnier, Stranger, More Eccentric And Prfound Thatn You Suspect Yourself To Be--capable Of Doing More Good And More Harm In The World Than You've Ever Imagined--it Is All But Impossible Not To Believe, At Least In His Presence And A While After You've Left Him, That He Alone Sees Through Your Essence, Weighs Your True Qualities . . . And Appreciates You More Fully Than Anyone Else Ever Has.

These Days, Clarissa Believes, You Measure People First By Their Kindness And Their Capacity For Devotion. You Get Tired, Sometimes, Of Wit And Intellect; Everybody's Little Display Of Genius.

Yes," She Answers And Does Not Move. She Might, At This Moment, Be Nothing But A Floating Intelligence; Not Even A Brain Inside A Skull, Just A Presence That Perceives, As A Ghoast Might. Yes, She Thinks, This Is Probably How It Must Feel To Be A Ghost. It's A Little Like Reading, Isn't It-that Same Sensation Of Knowing People, Settings, Situations, Without Playing Any Particular Part Beyond That Of The Willing Observer.

A Certain Bohemian, Good-witch Sort Of Charm