When I Was Researching My Very First

Nobody Wants To Hear That You Will Try Your Best. It Is The Wrong Thing To Say. It Is Like Saying 'i Probably Won't Hit You With A Shovel.' Suddenly Everyone Is Afraid You Will Do The Opposite.

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 . . .

It's Funny, Particularly When You're A Writer And You're Doing Well, You Have That Sense Of Like, "oh! My View Of The World Is The One That's Going To Be Published."

The Violins Waltzed. The Cellos And Basses Provided Accompaniment. The Violas Mourned Their Fate, While The Concertmaster Showed Off. The Flutes Did Bird Imitations…repeatedly, And The Reed Instruments Had The Good Taste To Admire My Jacket. The Trumpets Held A Parade In Honor Of Our Great Nation, While The French Horns Waxed Nostalgic About Something Or Other. The Trombones Had Too Much To Drink. The Percussion Beat The Band, And The Tuba Stayed Home Playing Cards With His Landlady, The Harp, Taking Sips Of Warm Milk A Blue Little Cup. “but The Composer Is Still Dead.

Goodness! Golly! Good God! Blessed Allah! Zeus And Hera! Mary And Joseph! Nathaniel Hawthorne! Don't Touch Her! Grab Her! Move Closer! Run Away! Don't Move! Kill The Snake! Leave It Alone! Give It Some Food! Don't Let It Bite Her! Lure The Snake Away! Here, Snakey! Here, Snakey Snakey!