He’s harmless, poor thing. That’s what everyone said. It was true, but who cares? Lots of people are harmless, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them.

Father sighed. “Please spare me these arguments of yours.” “Whose arguments should I use?

Perhaps you should put your head down.” I knew this was the thing to do, although I’ve never fainted and I don’t intend to.

When we were small, Rose and I used to play a game called connect the dots. I loved it. I loved drawing a line from dot number 1 to dot number 2 and so on. Most of all, I loved the moment when the chaotic sprinkle of dots resolved itself into a picture. That's what stories do. They connect the random dots of life into a picture. But it's all an illusion. Just try to connect the dots of life. You'll end up with a lunatic scribble.

How can something as fragile as a word build the whole world?

Did I kill him?” I said. “No, miss,” said Robert. “Pity.

Poor Petey. I’d like to say I could almost feel a tender spot for poor Petey, but the truth is I’d rather feel at the tender spot on his head and give it a poke.