Bad circumstances have a way of ruining things that would otherwise be pleasant.

I was too jitterbuggy happy to sleep, and the whole day kept playing in my brain's little screening room.

A newspaper, as I'm sure you know, is a collection of supposedly true stories written down by writers who either saw them happen or talked to people who did. These writers are called journalists, and like telephone operators, butchers, ballerinas, and people who clean up after horses, journalists can sometimes make mistakes.

This story is about the Baudelaires. And they are the sort of people who know that there’s always something. Something to invent, something to read, something to bite, and something to do, to make a sanctuary, no matter how small. And for this reason, I am happy to say, the Baudelaires were very fortunate indeed.

To stutter through it with you or even stop stuttering and say nothing, was so lucky and soft, better talk than mile-a-minute with anyone. After a few minutes we’d stop rattling, we’d adjust, we’d settle in, and the conversation would speed into the night.

I have produced things that I would say were sincerely cheerful. But then I am reminded by other people that no one else would see them that way.

I always think it's silly when people talk about works of culture taking risks. Because there's not any risk involved.