Every Book Has Got Its Challenges. You

You Learn To Write By Reading, And My Experiences And Tastes As A Reader Are Pretty Wide.

As Long As We Remember A Person, They're Not Really Gone. Their Thoughts, Their Feelings, Their Memories, They Become A Part Of Us.

And Indeed, I Am A Warmhearted And Thoroughly Domestic Man Who Gets Up And Makes Pancakes For His Children And Kisses Them On The Head When He Sends Them Off To Their Day.

A Baby Was A Fact. It Was A Being With A Mind And A Nature, And You Could Feel About It Any Way You Liked, But A Baby Wouldn't Care. Just By Existing, It Demanded That You Believe In A Future: The Future It Would Crawl In, Walk In, Live In. A Baby Was A Piece Of Time; It Was A Promise You Made That The World Made Back To You.

She Remembered No One At All. She Remembered One Day Thinking: I Am Alone. There Is No I But I. She Lived In The Dark. She Taught Herself To Walk In The Light, Though It Was Not Easy.