I Never Thought About Doing A Sequel

The Idea Of Some Kind Of Objectively Constant, Universal Literary Value Is Seductive. It Feels Real. It Feels Like A Stone Cold Fact That In Search Of Lost Time, By Marcel Proust, Is Better Than A Shore Thing, By Snooki. And It May Be; Snooki Definitely Has More One-star Reviews On Amazon. But If Literary Value Is Real, No One Seems To Be Able To Locate It Or Define It Very Well. We're Increasingly Adrift In A Grey Void Of Aesthetic Relativism.

I Have No Doubt There Are Magician Psychopaths, And Magician Serial Killers. I Doubt Brakebills Admissions Is Very Good At Screening For Those.

A Magician Is Strong Because He Feels The Pain Between What The World Is And What He Would Make Of It.

It Was So Much Easier To Be Angry. Being Angry Made Him Feel Strong, Even Though-- And This Contradiction Did Nothing To Diminish His Anger-- He Was Angry Only Because His Position Was So Weak.

A Novel With A Bad Middle Is A Bad Book. A Bad Ending Is Something I've Just Gotten In The Habit Of Forgiving.