Oh, I've Become Immune To The Booker.

I Believe The Novella Is The Perfect Form Of Prose Fiction.

However, Withered, I Still Feel Myself To Be Exactly The Same Person I've Always Been. Hard To Explain That To The Young. We May Look Truly Reptilian, But We're Not A Separate Tribe.

These Were Everyday Sounds Magnified By Darkness. And Darkness Was Nothing - It Was Not A Substance, It Was Not A Presence, It Was No More Than An Absence Of Light.

I Apologize For Being Obvious, But Every Time I Watch The Curtain Come Down On Even A Halfway Decent Production Of A Shakespeare Play I Feel A Little Sorrowful That I'll Never Know The Man, Or Any Man Of Such Warm Intelligence.

Be Wary Of Too Much Calm, Particularly In Your Mid-fifties.