What Is A Writer Of Fiction But

Death Should Be A Celebration. Like A Birthday. I Want To Go Up Like A Rocket When My Time Comes, And Fall Down In A Cloud Of Stars, And Hear Everyone Go: Ahh!

I Sell Dreams, Small Comforts, Sweet Harmless Temptations To Bring Down A Multitude Of Saints Crashing Among The Hazels And Nougatines

Some People Spend The Whole Of Their Lives Sitting Waiting For One Train, Only To Find That They Never Even Made It To The Station.

All Those Moments, Those Memories. Everything That We Are, Compressed In Just Two Or Three Kilos Of Paper — The Weight Of A Human Heart.

Drunkeness, She Told Us In A Rare Moment Of Confidence, Is A Sin Against The Fruit, The Tree, The Wine Itself. Wine, Distilled And Nurtured From Bud Into Fruit; It Deserves Reverance. Joy. Gentleness. (page 194.)