All told, she owned fourteen books, but she saw her story as being made up predominantly of ten of them. Of those ten, six were stolen, one showed up at the kitchen table, two were made for her by a hidden Jew, and one was delivered by a soft, yellow-dressed afternoon.

And I stop listening to me, because to put it bluntly, I tire me.

Have faith, Ed, all right?' I search the coffee mug, but there's none in there.

I'm not the messenger at all. I'm the message.

Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

I'm not a writer who refuses to talk about a book until I've finished.

THE LAST WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG: You've done enough.