Here Is The World, And

I Suspect Any Serious Reader Has A First Great Book, Just The Way Anybody Has A First Kiss.

He Wanted To Tell Her That He Was Inspired And Vigilant And Recklessly Alone, That His Body Contained His Unsteady Heart And Something Else, Something He Felt But Could Not Describe: Porous And Spiky, Shifting With Flecks Of Thought, With Urge And Memory; Salted With Brightness, Flickerings Of White And Green And Pale Gold; Something That Loved Stars Because It Was Made Of The Same Substance.

This Is What You Do. You Make A Future For Yourself Out Of The Raw Material At Hand.

Her Cake Is A Failure, But She Is Loved Anyway. She Is Loved, She Thinks, In More Or Less The Way The Gifts Will Be Appreciated: Because They Have Been Given With Good Intentions , Because They Exist, Because They Are Part Of A World In Which One Wants What One Gets.

The Secret Of Flight Is This -- You Have To Do It Immediately, Before Your Body Realizes It Is Defying The Laws.