She Herself Is A Haunted House. She

The Clown May Be The Source Of Mirth, But - Who Shall Make The Clown Laugh?

...in Their Millenial And Long-lived Patience They Knew Quite Well How, In A Hundred Years, Or A Thousand Years' Time, Or Else, Perhaps, Tomorrow, In An Hour's Time, For It Was All A Gamble, A Million To One Chance, But All The Same There Was A Chance That If They Kept On Shaking Their Chains, One Day, Some Day, The Clasps Upon The Shackles Would Part.

It May Be The First In What I Trust Will Be A Rapidly Growing And Influential Genre--the Novel Designed On Purpose To Be Excludedfrom The Booker Short-list.

[t]ea, That Uniquely English Meal, That Unnecessary Collation At Which No Stimulants--neither Alcohol Nor Meat--are Served, That Comforting Repast Of Which To Partake Is As Good As Second Childhood.

His Contagious Conviction That Our Love Was Unique And Desperate Infected Me With An Anxious Sickness; Soon We Would Learn To Treat One Another With The Circumspect Tenderness Of Comrades Who Are Amputees, For We Were Surrounded By The Most Moving Images Of Evanesecence, Fireworks, Morning Glories, The Old, Children. But The Most Moving Of These Images Were The Intagible Relfections Of Ourselves We Saw In One Another's Eyes, Reflections Of Nothing But Appearances, In A City Dedicated To Seeming, And, Try As We Might To Possess The Essence Of Each Other's Otherness, We Would Inevitably Fail.