but all I could think was in New York that kid would have been stuck in a straitjacket practically from birth and dangled over a tank full of Educational Consultants and Remedial Experts all snapping at his ankles for the next twenty years arguing about his Special Needs and getting paid plenty for it.

The imagination can be dangerous. It can change the world. And that is why we write.

I guess there was a war going on somewhere in the world that night but it wasn't one that could touch us.

At the time, I didn't have the insight to wonder at the transient nature of despair, but now that I'm older I've seen how little it takes to turn a person's life around for better or worse. An event will do, or an Idea. Another person. An idea of a person.

It's a strange sensation to live inside another person's life, to wonder all the time what he is doing, or thinking or feeling.

When you read a book, the neurons in your brain fire overtime, deciding what the characters are wearing, how they're standing, and what it feels like the first time they kiss. No one shows you. The words make suggestions. Your brain paints the pictures.

I, a late riser, fantasise about getting up every morning at 5 A.M. to fetch the horses in from the fields.