You Cant Reduce Me To A Set

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.

And Your Dinner For The Orchestra Officials." "haven't You Ever Had People Coming Over And No Time To Shop? You Have To Make Do With What's In The Fridge, Clarice. May I Call You Clarice?

Nothing Makes Us More Vulnerable Than Loneliness Except Greed.

In Her Way, She Was A Hard One. Faith In Any Sort Of Natural Justice Was Nothing But A Night Light; She Knew Of That. Whatever She Did, She Would End The Same Way With Everyone Does: Flat On Her Back With A Tube In Her Nose, Wondering, "is This All?

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.