It Is A Lonely Feeling

It Is A Curious Thing, The Death Of A Loved One. We All Know That Our Time In This World Is Limited, And That Eventually All Of Us Will End Up Underneath Some Sheet, Never To Wake Up. And Yet It Is Always A Surprise When It Happens To Someone We Know. It Is Like Walking Up The Stairs To Your Bedroom In The Dark, And Thinking There Is One More Stair Than There Is. Your Foot Falls Down, Through The Air, And There Is A Sickly Moment Of Dark Surprise As You Try And Readjust The Way You Thought Of Things.

I Always Think It's Silly When People Talk About Works Of Culture Taking Risks. Because There's Not Any Risk Involved.

I'd Finished The First Two [books] And They Were Going To To Be Published, And [editor] Said, "we Need You To Write A Summary That Will Drive People To These Books." And It Took Forever. I Couldn't Think Of A Thing To Say. I Looked At The Back Of Other Children's Books That Were Full Of Giddy Praise And Corny Rhetorical Questions, You Know, "will She Have A Better Time At Summer Camp Than She Thinks?" "how Will She Escape From The Troll's Dungeon?" All These Terrible, Terrible Summaries Of Books, And I Just Couldn't.

Stealing, Of Course, Is A Crime, And A Very Impolite Thing To Do. But Like Most Impolite Things, It Is Excusable Under Certain Circumstances. Stealing Is Not Excusable If, For Instance, You Are In A Museum And You Decide That A Certain Painting Would Look Better In Your House, And You Simply Grab The Painting And Take It There. But If You Were Very, Very Hungry, And You Had No Way Of Obtaining Money, It Would Be Excusable To Grab The Painting, Take It To Your House, And Eat It.

I Stand Entwined In Fire On The Inextinguishable Bonfire Of Inconceivable Love.