The First Sentence Of A Book Is

Amid The Gray, An Incongruous Band Of Daytime Blue Asserts Itself. To The West, A Pink Sun Already Begins Its Descent. The Effect Is Of Three Isolated Aspects, Distinct Phases Of The Day. All Of It, Strewn Across The Horizon, Is Contained In His Vision.

A Bicultural Upbringing Is A Rich But Imperfect Thing

In Fiction, Plenty Do The Job Of Conveying Information, Rousing Suspense, Painting Characters, Enabling Them To Speak. But Only Certain Sentences Breathe And Shift About, Like Live Matter In Soil.

While The Astronauts, Heroes Forever, Spent Mere Hours On The Moon, I Have Remained In This New World For Nearly Thirty Years. I Know That My Achievement Is Quite Ordinary. I Am Not The Only Man To Seek His Fortune Far From Home, And Certainly I Am Not The First. Still, There Are Times I Am Bewildered By Each Mile I Have Traveled, Each Meal I Have Eaten, Each Person I Have Known, Each Room In Which I Have Slept. As Ordinary As It All Appears, There Are Times When It Is Beyond My Imagination." (from "the Third And Final Continent")

Somehow, Bad News, However Ridden With Static, However Filled With Echoes, Always Manages To Be Conveyed.