The Whole Magic Of A Plot Requires

I Love The Laconic. Clearly, I Am Not Of Their Number.

My Dislike Has No Consequences. It Accrues Only In My Mind—like Preserves On A Shelf Or Guns Zeroing In, And Never Firing.

Self-pity” Is Just Sadness, I Think, In The Pejorative.

And Then There Were The Wallflowers Who Had Recognized For Years That The Thing Was Hopeless, Who Had Found In That Information A Kind Of Calm. They No Longer Tried, With A Bright And Desperate Effort, To Sustain A Conversation With Somebody's Brother, Somebody's Usher, Somebody's Roommate, Somebody's Roommate's Usher's Brother... The Category Of Wallflower Who Had Given Up On All This Was Very Quiet, Not Indifferent, Only Quiet. And She Always Brought A Book.

Most Movies Are Not Very Good. Most People Know It And Like To See Them Anyway.