Ready When You Are, Sergeant Pempbry.

Human Emotions Are A Gift From Our Animal Ancestors. Cruelty Is A Gift Humanity Has Given Itself.

But The Face On The Pillow, Rosy In The Firelight, Is Certainly That Of Clarice Starling, And She Sleeps Deeply, Sweetly, In The Silence Of The Lambs.

When Will Graham Could Open His Right Eye, He Saw The Clock And Knew Where He Was- An Intensive-care Unit. He Knew To Watch The Clock. Its Movement Assured Him That This Was Passing, Would Pass. That's What It Was There For.

We Rarely Get To Prepare Ourselves In Meadows Or On Graveled Walks; We Do It On Short Notice In Places Without Windows, Hospital Corridors, Rooms Like This Lounge With Its Cracked Plastic Sofa And Cinzano Ashtrays, Where The Cafe Curtains Cover Blank Concrete. In Rooms Like This, With So Little Time, We Prepare Our Gestures, Get Them By Heart So We Can Do Them When We're Frightened In The Face Of Doom.

It's Hard To Have Anything Isn't It? Rare To Get It, Hard To Keep It. This Is A Damn Slippery Planet.