..she Had That Brand Of Pragmatism That

To Call You Excrement Would Be An Insult To The Product Of My Bowels.

A Monster Lies In Wait In Me,a Stew Of Wounds And Misery.but Fiercer Still In Life And Limb,the Me That Lies In Wait In Him

A Man Kills The Thing He Loves, And He Must Die A Little Himself.

I Am A Man, And Men Are Animals Who Tell Stories. This Is A Gift From God, Who Spoke Our Species Into Being, But Left The End Of Our Story Untold. That Mystery Is Troubling To Us. How Could It Be Otherwise? Without The Final Part, We Think, How Are We To Make Sense Of All That Went Before: Which Is To Say, Our Lives? So We Make Stories Of Our Own, In Fevered And Envious Imitation Of Our Maker, Hoping That We'll Tell, By Chance, What God Left Untold. And Finishing Our Tale, Come To Understand Why We Were Born.

That Which Is Imagined Can Never Be Lost.