The Sea Is Nothing But A Library

The Burning Of A Book Is A Sad, Sad Sight, For Even Though A Book Is Nothing But Ink And Paper, It Feels As If The Ideas Contained In The Book Are Disappearing As The Pages Turn To Ashes And The Cover And Binding--which Is The Term For The Stitching And Glue That Holds The Pages Together--blacken And Curl As The Flames Do Their Wicked Work. When Someone Is Burning A Book, They Are Showing Utter Contempt For All Of The Thinking That Produced Its Ideas, All Of The Labor That Went Into Its Words And Sentences, And All Of The Trouble That Befell The Author . . .

It Looked Like Something The Hemlock Needed, Or A Piece Of Equipment A Plumber Had Left Behind. It Looked Like None Of Your Business.

Dumping You Times Infinity. Still Not Enough.

It Is A Curious Thing, The Death Of A Loved One. We All Know That Our Time In This World Is Limited, And That Eventually All Of Us Will End Up Underneath Some Sheet, Never To Wake Up. And Yet It Is Always A Surprise When It Happens To Someone We Know. It Is Like Walking Up The Stairs To Your Bedroom In The Dark, And Thinking There Is One More Stair Than There Is. Your Foot Falls Down, Through The Air, And There Is A Sickly Moment Of Dark Surprise As You Try And Readjust The Way You Thought Of Things.

He Looked Like The Sort Of Person Who Would Tell You That He Did Not Have An Umbrella To Lend You When He Actually Had Several And Simply Wanted To See You Get Soaked.