We Traveled For Two Weeks

I Used To Think I Preferred Getting Old To The Alternative, But Now I'm Not Sure. Sometimes The Momotony Of Bingo And Sing-alongs And Ancient Dusty People Parked In The Hallway In Wheelchairs Makes Me Long For Death. Particularly When I Rememver That I'm One Of The Ancient Dusty People, Filed Away Like Some Worthless Tchotchke.

Juliet Is One Of Those Rare Novels That Has It All: Lush Prose, Tightly Intertwined Parallel Narratives, Intrigue, And Historical Detail All Set Against A Backdrop Of Looming Danger. Anne Fortier Casts A New Light On One Of History's Greatest Stories Of Passion. I Was Swept Away.

I Stroke Her Lightly, Memorizing Her Body. I Want Her To Melt Into Me, Like Butter On Toast. I Want To Absorb Her And Walk Around For The Rest Of My Days With Her Encased In My Skin. I Lie Motionless, Savoring The Feeling Of Her Body Against Mine. I'm Afraid To Breathe In Case I Break The Spell.

Hey! Shouts Camel. There Ain't No Woman In The World Worth Two Bottles Of Whiskey!

When You Are Five, You Know Your Age Down To The Month. Even In Your Twenties, You Know How Old You Are. I'm Twenty-three You Say, Or Maybe Twenty-seven. But Then In Your Thirties, Something Strange Starts To Happen. It Is A Mere Hiccup At First, An Instant Of Hesitation. How Old Are You? Oh, I'm--you Start Confidently, But Then You Stop. You Were Going To Say Thirty-three, But You Are Not. You're Thirty-five. And Then You're Bothered, Because You Wonder If This Is The Beginning Of The End. It Is, Of Course, But It's Decades Before You Admit It.