Mrs. Cole Was A Perfect Democrat. She

Even When Love Isn't Enough...somehow It Is.

Let Me Tell You Something My Friend. Hope Is A Dangerous Thing. Hope Can Drive A Man Insane.

I Realized The Shells Were Talking In A Voice I Recognized. I Should Have; It Was My Own. Had I Always Known That? I Suppose I Had. On Some Level, Unless We're Mad, I Think Most Of Us Know The Various Voices Of Our Own Imaginations. And Of Our Memories, Of Course. They Have Voices, Too. Ask Anyone Who Has Ever Lost A Limb Or A Child Or A Long-cherished Dream. Ask Anyone Who Blames Himself For A Bad Decision, Usually Made In A Raw Instant (an Instant That Is Most Commonly Red). Our Memories Have Voices, Too. Often Sad Ones That Clamor Like Raised Arms In The Dark.

He Needs To Be Corrected, If You Don't Mind Me Saying So. He Needs A Good Talking-to, And Perhaps A Bit More. My Own Girls, Sir, Didn't Care For The Overlook At First. One Of Them Actually Stole A Pack Of My Matches And Tried To Burn It Down. I Corrected Them. I Corrected Them Most Harshly. And When My Wife Tried To Stop Me From Doing My Duty, I Corrected Her.

The Mystery Of The Universe Is Not Time But Size.