Sometimes It Is Better Not To Know.

But I'm Going To Try To Tell The Truth. Except For The Parts I'm Leav­ing Out, Because There's Still Stuff I'm Just Not Going To Tell You. Get Used To It.

I Didn’t Want To Know That The Monster That Lived Under Your Bed When You Were A Kid Not Only Really Is There But Used To Have A Few Beers With Your Dad.

My Capacity For Invention Is Flash Hot Stark, I Thought. Sucker Sunshade. Disembodied Radar-reconnaissance. Not To Mention Bitter Chocolate Death And Killer Zebras. Pity About The Rest Of Me.

She Poured The Water, Arranged Some Bread Near Enough The Embers To Scorch But Not Catch Fire, And Looked Up At Little John. She Was So Accustomed To His Step, To His Bulk, That It Took A Moment To Notice His Face; And When She Did . . . It Was, She Thought, Rather Like The Moment It Took To Realize One Had Cut One's Finger As One Stared Dumbly At The First Drop Of Blood On The Knife-blade. You Know It Is Going To Hurt Quite A Lot In A Minute.

One Keeps Searching For Ease, She Did Not Say, And Not Finding It, Till The Memories Of No-pain Seem Only Like Daydreams.