How Easy It Was To Lie When

One Blow In Anger [would] Kill, Probably, A Child From Aged Two To Eight. Those Over Eight Would Take Two Blows To Kill.

January. It Was All Things. And It Was One Thing, Like A Solid Door. Its Cold Sealed The City In A Gray Capsule. January Was Moments, And January Was A Year. January Rained The Moments Down, And Froze Them In Her Memory: [...]every Human Action Seemed To Yield A Magic. January Was A Two-faced Month, Jangling Like Jester's Bells, Crackling Like Snow Crust, Pure As Any Beginning, Grim As An Old Man, Mysteriously Familiar Yet Unknown, Like A Word One Can Almost But Not Quite Define.

For Neither Life Nor Nature Cares If Justice Is Ever Done Or Not.

I Have No Television - I Hate It.

The First Person You Should Think Of Pleasing, In Writing A Book, Is Yourself. If You Can Amuse Yourself For The Length Of Time It Takes To Write A Book, The Publisher And The Readers Can And Will Come Later.