As Long As We Remember A Person,

My Inventing Time Is All Done Under The Influence Of Aerobic Exercise. Basically, I Do All My Thinking While I Run.

Sara Waited A Respectful Time, Knowing There Was Nothing She Could Do To Ease The Woman's Pain. Grief Was A Place, Sara Understood, Where A Person Went Alone. It Was Like A Room Without Doors, And What Happened In That Room, All The Anger And The Pain You Felt, Was Meant To Stay There, Nobody's Business But Yours.

One Of The Great Themes In American Literature Is The Individual's Confrontation With The Vast Open Spaces Of The Continent.

There Was Something In The Pages Of These Books That Had The Power To Make Him Feel Better About Things, A Life Raft To Cling To Before The Dark Currents Of Memory Washed Him Downstream Again, And On Brighter Days, He Could Even See Himself Going On This Way For Some Time. A Small But Passable Life. And Then, Of Course, The End Of The World Happened.

Here She Was, A Women Who Could Bolt-load A Crossbow In Under A Second, Put Half A Dozen Long Arrows In The Air In Fewer Than Five, Blade A Target Dead Through The Sweet Spot At Six Meters, On The Run, On An Off Day; And Yet Knitting A Pair Of Baby Booties Seemed Completely Beyond Her Power.