Sleep Is A Prison For A Boy

She Moved From Being A Young Woman Into Having The Angular Look Of A Queen, Someone Who Has Made Her Face With Her Desire To Be A Certain Kind Of Person. He Still Likes That About Her. Her Smartness, The Fact That She Did Not Inherit That Look Or That Beauty, But It Was Something Searched For And That It Will Always Reflect A Present Stage Of Her Character.

In Canada Pianos Needed Water. You Opened Up The Back And Left A Full Glass Of Water, And A Month Later The Glass Would Be Empty. Her Father Had Told Her About The Dwarfs Who Drank Only At Pianos, Never In Bars.

There's More Danger In The Violence You Don't Face.

When I Write My Novels I Don't Really Have A Huge Plan Beforehand; I Don't Have The Whole Plot And Architecture, So The Story Is Sort Of Discovered As I Write It.

When Someone Speaks He Looks At A Mouth, Not Eyes And Their Colors, Which, It Seems To Him, Will Always Alter Depending On The Light Of A Room, The Minute Of The Day. Mouths Reveal Insecurity Or Smugness Or Any Other Point On The Spectrum Of Character. For Him They Are The Most Intricate Aspect Of Faces. He's Never Sure What An Eye Reveals. But He Can Read How Mouths Darken Into Callousness, Suggest Tenderness. One Can Often Misjudge An Eye From Its Reaction To A Simple Beam Of Sunlight.