Show Me A Hero And I'll Write

An Unread Book Is Just A Block Of Paper.

Life Plays The Same Lovely And Agonizing Joke On All Of Us.

I Like France, Where Everybody Thinks He's Napoleon--down Here Everybody Thinks He's Christ.

Her Fine High Forehead Sloped Gently Up To Where Her Hair, Bordering It Like An Armorial Shield, Burst Into Lovelocks And Waves And Curlicues Of Ash Blonde And Gold. Her Eyes Were Bright, Big, Clear, Wet And Shining, The Colour Of Her Cheeks Was Real, Breaking Close To The Surface From The Strong Young Pump Of Her Heart. Her Body Hovered Delicately On The Last Edge Of Childhood -- She Was Almost Eighteen, Nearly Complete, But The Dew Was Still On Her.

There's No Substitute For Will. Sometimes You Have To Fake Will When You Don't Feel It At All.