If you looked for things to make you feel hurt and wretched and unnecessary, you were certain to find them.

Should they whisper false of you, Never trouble to deny; Should the words they say be true, Weep and storm and say they lie.

[Requesting her epitaph to read this way:] Excuse my dust.

If I should labor through daylight and dark, Consecrate, valorous, serious, true, Then on the world I may blazon my mark; And what if I don't, and what if I do?

His books are exciting and powerful and — if I may filch the word from the booksy ones — pulsing.

She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B.

Now to me, Edith looks like something that would eat her young.