The dilemma, of course, is that such people save their most important words for after, when the surrounding humans are unlucky enough to find them.

Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.

Is there cowardice with the acknowledgement of fear?

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

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

My mouth opened. It happened. Yes, with my head thrown into the sky, I started howling. Arms stretched out next to me, I howled, and everything came out of me. Visions pored up my throat and past voices surrounded me. The sky listened. The city didn't. I didn't care. All I cared about was that I was howling so that I could hear my voice and so I would remember that the boy had intensity and something to offer. I howled, oh, so loud and desperate, telling a world that I was here and I wouldn't lie down.

He was waving. "Saukerl," she laughed, and as she held up her hand, she knew completely that he was simultaneously calling her a Saumensch. I think that's as close to love as eleven-year-olds can get.