Oh, I've Become Immune To The Booker.

Finally He Spoke The Three Simple Words That No Amount Of Bad Art Or Bad Faith Can Every Quite Cheapen. She Repeated Them, With Exactly The Same Slight Emphasis On The Second Word, As Though She Were The One To Say Them First. He Had No Religious Belief, But It Was Impossible Not To Think Of An Invisible Presence Or Witness In The Room, And That These Words Spoken Aloud Were Like Signatures On An Unseen Contract.

I Was The Basest Of Readers. All I Wanted Was My Own World, And Myself In It, Given Back To Me In Artful Shapes And Accessible Form.

He Never Believed In Fate Or Providence, Or The Future Being Made By Someone In The Sky. Instead, At Every Instant, A Trillion Trillion Possible Futures; The Pickiness Of Pure Chance And Physical Laws Seemed Like Freedom From The Scheming Of A Gloomy God.

Above All, She Wanted To Look As Though She Had Not Given The Matter A Moment's Thought, And That Would Take Time.

All She Had Needed Was The Certainty Of His Love, And His Reassurance That There Was No Hurry When A Lifetime Lay Ahead Of Them.