Love Means Not Ever Having To Say

What Can You Say About A Twenty-five Year Old Girl Who Died? That She Was Beautiful And Brilliant. That She Loved Mozart And Bach. The Beatles. And Me.

Professors Of Classics - Not Even A Professor Of English - Professors Of Classics, They're Something Sacred; It's Almost Like Being A Priest.

Although Science Could Pinpoint The Exact Spot In The Brain That Ignites Rage, They Had Yet To Identify The Location That Produces Love.

Some Were Brilliant Bordering On Genius. Others, Genius Bordering On Madness

But What Does He Do To Qualify As A Sonovabitch?” Jenny Asked. “make Me”, I Replied. “beg Pardon?” “make Me”, I Repeated. Her Eyes Widened Like Saucers. “you Mean Like Incest?” She Asked. “don’t Give Me Your Family Problems, Jen. I Have Enough Of My Own.” “like What, Oliver?” She Asked, “like Just What Is It He Makes You Do?” “the ‘right Things’”, I Said. “what’s Wrong With The ‘right Things’?” She Asked, Delighting In The Apparent Paradox.