Miracles Prove Nothing Except To Those Whose

All Male Friendships Are Essentially Quixotic: They Last Only So Long As Each Man Is Willing To Polish The Shaving-bowl Helmet, Climb On His Donkey, And Ride Off After The Other In Pursuit Of Illusive Glory And Questionable Adventure.

Undressing Her Was An Act Of Recklessness, A Kind Of Vandalism, Like Releasing A Zoo Full Of Animals, Or Blowing Up A Dam.

I Took Comfort, As A Kid, In Knowing That Things Had Always Been As Awful And As Wonderful As They Were Now, That The World Was Always On The Edge Of Total Destruction.

All The Preparation In The World Doesn't Avail You If You Can't Make That Imaginative Leap And Put Yourself In The Position Of The Characters You've Created, To Imagine What It's Like To Be Somebody Else.

The Magician Seemed To Promise That Something Torn To Bits Might Be Mended Without A Seam, That What Had Vanished Might Reappear, That A Scattered Handful Of Doves Or Dust Might Be Reunited By A Word, That A Paper Rose Consumed By Fire Could Be Made To Bloom From A Pile Of Ash. But Everyone Knew That It Was Only An Illusion. The True Magic Of This Broken World Lay In The Ability Of Things It Contained To Vanish, To Become So Thoroughly Lost, That They Might Never Have Existed In The First Place.