People Are Very Secretive - Secret Even

Wives?" She Asked, Interrupting Him. For A Moment, He Had Assumed She Was Tuning To The Novel. Then He Saw Her Waiting, Suspicious Eyes, So He Replied Cautiously, "none Active," As If Wives Were Volcanoes.

Only Esmeralda Was Not Weeping. Instead She Wore That Wooden Look That Whites Mistake For Churlishenss Or Indifference. Woodrew Knew It Was Neither. It Was Familiarity. This How Real Life Is Constituted, It Said. This Is Grief And Hatred And People Hacked To Death. This Is The Everyday We Have Known Since We Were Born And You Wazungu Have Not.

I've Got More Than One String To My Bow, And I Thought I'd Give This One A Twang.

When It's Going Well [writing] Goes Terribly Fast. It Isn't At All Surprising To Write A Chapter In A Day, Which For Me Is About Twenty-two Pages. When It's Going Badly, It Isn't Really Going Badly; It's Just The Beginning.

It Was Man Who Ended The Cold War In Case You Didn't Notice. It Wasn't Weaponry, Or Technology, Or Armies Or Campaigns. It Was Just Man. Not Even Western Man Either, As It Happened, But Our Sworn Enemy In The East, Who Went Into The Streets, Faced The Bullets And The Batons And Said: We've Had Enough. It Was Their Emperor, Not Ours, Who Had The Nerve To Mount The Rostrum And Declare He Had No Clothes. And The Ideologies Trailed After These Impossible Events Like Condemned Prisoners, As Ideologies Do When They've Had Their Day.