There Are Few Sights Sadder Than A

I'd Finished The First Two [books] And They Were Going To To Be Published, And [editor] Said, "we Need You To Write A Summary That Will Drive People To These Books." And It Took Forever. I Couldn't Think Of A Thing To Say. I Looked At The Back Of Other Children's Books That Were Full Of Giddy Praise And Corny Rhetorical Questions, You Know, "will She Have A Better Time At Summer Camp Than She Thinks?" "how Will She Escape From The Troll's Dungeon?" All These Terrible, Terrible Summaries Of Books, And I Just Couldn't.

I Am So Tired, I Can Hardly Type These Worfs.

There Is No Way Of Knowing For Sure Whether Or Not You Can Trust Someone, For The Simple Reason That Circumstances Change All Of The Time.

I’m Not A Romantic, I’m A Half-wit. Only Stupid People Would Think I’m Smart. I’m Not Something Anyone Should Know. I’m A Lunatic Wandering Around For Scraps, I’m Like Every Single Miserable Moron I’ve Scorned And Pretended I Didn’t Recognize. I’m All Of Them, Every Last Ugly Thing In A Bad Last-minute Costume. I’m Not Different, Not At All, Not Different From Any Other Speck Of A Thing. I’m A Blemished Blemish, A Ruined Ruin, A Stained Wreck So Failed I Can’t See What I Used To Be.

Wicked People Never Have Time For Reading. It's One Of The Reasons For Their Wickedness.