Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heart beat revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest?

As always, one of her books was next to her.

I'd rather chase the sun than wait for it.

Clearly," said Arthur,"you're an idiot- but you're our kind of idiot. Come on.

I like to tell students, 'I didn't burst on to the literary scene.' I'm never good at things at the beginning. I was terrible at the start. I need to work and work.

She tore a page from the book and ripped it in half. Then a chapter. Soon, there was nothing but scraps of words littered between her legs and all around her. The words. Why did they have to exist? Without them, there wouldn't be any of this. Without words, the Führer was nothing. There would be no limping prisoners, no need for consolation or wordly tricks to make us feel better. What good were the words? She said it audibly now, to the orange-lit room. "What good are the words?

Death waits for no man - and if he does, he doesn't usually wait for very long.