Don't Take Anyone's Writing Advice Too Seriously.

Wasn't There A Spell For Making Yourself Happy? Somebody Must Have Invented One. How Could He Have Missed It? Why Didn't They Teach It? Was It In The Library, A Flying Book Fluttering Just Out Of Reach, Beating Its Wings Against Some High Window?

Every Year The Literary Press Praises Dozens If Not Hundreds Of Novels To The Skies, Asserting Explicitly Or Implicitly That These Books Will Probably Not Be Suffering Water Damage In The Basements Of Their Authors' Houses 20 Years From Now. But Historically, Anyway, That's Not The Way The Novelistic Ecology Works.

In Our World No One Ever Knows What To Do, And Everyone's Just As Clueless And Full Of Crap As Everyone Else, And You Have To Figure It All Out By Yourself. And Even After You've Figured It Out And Done It, You'll Never Know Whether You Were Right Or Wrong. You'll Never Know If You Put The Ring In The Right Volcano, Or If Things Might Have Gone Better If You Hadn't.

Do You Promise To Hate My Parents As Much As I Do?" "oh, Absolutely," Quentin Said. "maybe Even More.

We Have Reached The Point Where Ignorance And Neglect Are The Best We Can Hope For In A Ruler.