There's No Match For The Silence Of

If The Book Is A Mystery To Its Author As She's Writing, Inevitably It's Going To Be A Mystery To The Reader As He Or She Reads It.

I Scowled At The World. And The World Scowled Back. We Were Locked In A Stare Of Mutual Disgust.

I Read Like An Animal. I Read Under The Covers, I Read Lying In The Grass, I Read At The Dinner Table. While Other People Were Talking To Me, I Read.

I'm The Opposite Of Someone Like David Grossman, Who Knows How His Characters Walk, And How They Smell. I Don't Allow Myself To Imagine What Mine Look Like At All. My Sense Of Them Comes From The Inside. They Remain, By Necessity, Physically Vague In My Mind.

Herman Slipped His Hand Into Mine, And I Thought, An Average Of Seventy-four Species Become Extinct Every Day, Which Was One Good Reason But Not The Only One To Hold Someone's Hand, And The Next Thing That Happened Was We Kissed Each Other, And I Found I Knew How, And I Felt Happy And Sad In Equal Parts, Because I Knew That I Was Falling In Love, But It Wasn't With Him.