She Herself Is A Haunted House. She

Reading A Book Is Like Re-writing It For Yourself. You Bring To A Novel, Anything You Read, All Your Experience Of The World. You Bring Your History And You Read It In Your Own Terms.

Just Because We're Sisters Under The Skin Doesn't Mean We've Got Much In Common.

This Lack Of Imagination Gives His Heroism To The Hero.

Spindly Branches Of Buttercups Were Secreted Among Gleaming Stems Still Moist At The Roots From Last Night's Rain That Had Washedand Refreshed The Entire Wood, Had Dowered It In Poignant Transparency, The Unique, Inconsolable Quality Of Rainy Countries, As If All Was Glimpsed Through Tears.

The End Of All Stories, Even If The Writer Forebears To Mention It, Is Death, Which Is Where Time Stops Short. Sheherezade Knew This, Which Is Why She Kept On Spinning Another Story Out Of The Bowels Of The Last One, Never Coming To A Point Where She Could Say: "this Is The End." Because It Would Have Been.