Each Of Them Always Gravitating Toward The

You Look Like A Ghost," Bailey Says. He Can Think Of No Better Way To Describe It. "you Appear The Same Way To Me, So Which Of Us Is Real?

I Paint Very Messy. I Throw Paint Around. So When I Let Myself Do The Same Sort Of Thing With My Writing, And I Would Just Write And Write And Write And Revise, That's When I Found My Rhythm In Writing.

Old Stories Have A Habit Of Being Told And Retold And Changed. Each Subsequent Storyteller Puts His Or Her Mark Upon It. Whatever Truth The Story Once Had Is Buried In Bias And Embellishment. The Reasons Do Not Matter As Much As The Story Itself.

Only The Ship Is Made Of Books, Its Sails Thousands Of Overlapping Pages, And The Sea It Floats Upon Is Dark Black Ink.

Could You Do Such Things When You Were A Dancer?' Tara Asks Her, As Tsukiko Pulls A Leg Up Impossibly Far Over Her Head. 'i Would Have Had A Much Busier Social Calendar If I Could,' Mme. Padva Replies With A Shake Of Her Head.