A Novel Is Like A Dream In

This Was The Wonderful Thing About Strangers. They Were Big Blank Pieces Of Paper, You Could Draw Watever You Like On Their Impresionable Surfaces

But I Knew One More Thing. That People W Ho Denied Who They Were Or Where They Had Been Were In The Greatest Danger.

In A Train...smash. In His Arm Her Last...breath.' He Had Loved Her. But He Hated Himself More. Such Suffering, So Much Pain. And He Thought It Made Him Hateful. As If Suffering Was Shameful, Disgusting, As If Pain Were A Crime. Who Can Judge Another Man's Suffering?

I Felt Like Time Was A Great Sea, And I Was Floating On The Back Of A Turtle, And No Sails Broke The Horizon.

After All The Fears, The Warnings, After All, A Woman's Mistakes Are Different From A Girl's. They Are Written By Fire On Stone. They Are A Trait And Not An Error.