The World Was A Terrible Place, Cruel,

Reality Is A Fragile Thing.

They're All Cruel,' He Said. 'the World I Come From, The World You Come From, And This One, Too. Maybe The People Don't See The Cruelty In Your World Right Away, It's Better Hidden, But It's There All The Same.

What Are Stories For If We Don't Learn From Them?

You Know, It's A Funny Thing About Writers. Most People Don't Stop To Think Of Books Being Written By People Much Like Themselves. They Think That Writers Are All Dead Long Ago--they Don't Expect To Meet Them In The Street Or Out Shopping. They Know Their Stories But Not Their Names, And Certainly Not Their Faces. And Most Writers Like It That Way.

The Heart Was A Weak, Changeable Thing, Bent On Nothing But Love, And There Could Be No More Fatal Mistake Than To Make It Your Master. Reason Must Be In Charge. It Comforted You For The Heart's Foolishness, It Sang Mocking Songs About Love, Derided It As A Whim Of Nature, Transient As Flowers. So Why Did She Still Keep Following Her Heart?