Any Reasonable Ruler Would Have The Expectation

I Have To Feel What I'm Writing, Right Down To The Core.

The Only Death I Fear Is Dying Ignorant.

The Idea That An Author Can Extricate Her Or His Own Ongoing Life Experience From The Tale Being Written Is A Conceit Of Very Little Worth.

Paradise Belonged To The Innocent. Which Was Why It Was And Would Ever Remain Empty. And That Is What Makes It A Paradise.

More Than One Philosopher Has Claimed That We Ever Remain Children, Far Beneath The Indurated Layers That Make Up The Armour Of Adulthood. Armour Encumbers, Restricts The Body And Soul Within It. But It Also Protects. Blows Are Blunted. Feelings Lose Their Edge, Leaving Us To Suffer Naught But A Plague Of Bruises, And, After A Time, Bruises Fade.