Ills Are Many, Blessings Few, But Dreams

Get Too Conceptual, Too Cute And Remote, And Your Characters Die On The Page.

If The World Offered Nothing, Nowhere To Support Or Make Bearable Whatever Her Private Grief Was, Then It Is That World, And Not She, That Is At Fault.

Danger's Over, Banana Breakfast Is Saved.

"you Are So Close." "to Whom? Margravine, Not Even To Himself. This Place, This Island: All His Life He's Done Nothing But Hop From Island To Island. Is That A Reason? Does There Have To Be A Reason? Shall He Tell You: He Works For No Whitehall, Non Conceivable Unless, Ha, Ha, The Network Of White Halls In His Own Brain: These Featureless Corridors He Keeps Swept And Correct For Occasional Visiting Agents."

Length Is Usually Intensity. Not Time.