I'm cursed with this puritanical streak that makes me want everything to be about something. It's a terrible affliction.

You're like something drawn with the sun's fire, and I can take only little glimpses of you.

You can't eat [literature], that's the problem," he said. "I've tried, it's very dry, and not at all nutritious.

I know you pretty well." "Better than anyone I think." I smiled. Her compliment was like a gift itself, only more precious than anything that could be bought.

IMBECILE!" the chef shouted. "Next time why don't you just put your whole HAND in the food, hey? Yes, your whole hand, or maybe your FACE! I arrange the food on plates with care, are you understanding what I am telling you? It is part of the art form of cooking, yes? A lovely plate of food is a thing of beauty! And then you, NUMBSKULL, come along and put your fat greasy FINGERS all over my plate, and SHAKE the plate, and move my food all around the plate until it looks like pigs' vomit!" "Chef Vlad!" I cried out in delight.

His speech failed to rouse an enthusiastic cheer, but no one dared contradict him.

It was as though, in one moment, he had become a stranger. And I a stranger to myself.