My Westley Will Come For Me.

Do I Love You? My God, If Your Love Were A Grain Of Sand, Mine Would Be A Universe Of Beaches! If Your Love Were-" "i Don't Understand That First One Yet," Buttercup Interrupted. She Was Starting To Get Very Excited Now. "let Me Get This Straight. Are You Saying My Love Is A Grain Of Sand And Yours Is This Other Thing? Images Confuse Me So - Is This Universal Business Of Yours Bigger Than My Sand? Help Me, Westley. I Have The Feeling We're On The Verge Of Something Just Terribly Important.

Writing Is Finally About One Thing: Going Into A Room Alone And Doing It. Putting Words On Paper That Have Never Been There In Quite That Way Before. And Although You Are Physically By Yourself, The Haunting Demon Never Leaves You, That Demon Being The Knowledge Of Your Own Terrible Limitations, Your Hopeless Inadequacy, The Impossibility Of Ever Getting It Right. No Matter How Diamond-bright Your Ideas Are Dancing In Your Brain, On Paper They Are Earthbound.

The Infant Is Ten And He Stays.

No. Not Yet. A Craftsman Only. But I Dream To Be An Artist. I Pray That Someday, If I Work With Enough Care, If I Am Very Very Lucky, I Will Make A Weapon That Is A Work Of Art. Call Me An Artist Then, And I Will Answer.

I Don't Like Killing A Girl," The Spaniard Said. "god Does It All The Time; If It Doesn't Bother Him, Don't Let It Worry You.