Once again, her parents' problems had run through her life like a piece of heavy equipment, smashing everything in their way.

The essay I had to read was called, "An Essay on Criticism" by Alexander Pope. The first challenge was that the essay was, in fact, a very long poem in "heroic couplets". If something is called an essay, it should be an essay.

Tell me what you want, what you really, really want," he said. "Braiiinnnnssss," we said in unison.

I'm Keith," he said, "and you're . . . clearly mad, but what's your name?

She was standing in the airport of Copenhagen, staring at a doorway, trying to figure out if it was (a) a bathroom and (b) what kind of bathroom it was. The door merely said H. Was she an H? Was H "hers"? It could just as easily be "his". Or "Helicopter Room: Not a Bathroom at All

Fear can't hurt you," she said. "When it washes over you, give it no power. It's a snake with no venom. Remember that. That knowledge can save you.

She firmly held the theory that everyone gets at least one very stupid superpower.