We Eat The Year Away.

The First Book Is The Book You Have To Write To Get Back At Your Parents; The Book You Always Had In You. Once You Get That Out Of Your Way, You Can Start Writing Books.

I Remember That I Stood On The Library Steps Holding My Books And Looking For A Minute At The Soft Hinted Green In The Branches Against The Sky And Wishing, As I Always Did, That I Could Walk Home Across The Sky Instead Of Through The Village.

My Name Is Mary Katherine Blackwood. I Am Eighteen Years Old, And I Live With My Sister Constance. I Have Often Thought That With Any Luck At All, I Could Have Been Born A Werewolf, Because The Two Middle Fingers On Both My Hands Are The Same Length, But I Have Had To Be Content With What I Had. I Dislike Washing Myself, And Dogs, And Noise. I Like My Sister Constance, And Richard Plantagenet, And Amanita Phalloides, The Death-cup Mushroom. Everyone Else In Our Family Is Dead.

Let Him Be Wise, Or Let Me Be Blind; Don't Let Me, She Hoped Concretely, Don't Let Me Know Too Surely What He Thinks Of Me.

I Shall Weave A Suit Of Leaves. At Once. With Acorns For Buttons.