I suspect that most authors don't really want criticism, not even constructive criticism. They want straight-out, unabashed, unashamed, fulsome, informed, naked praise, arriving by the shipload every fifteen minutes or so.

I lay on the bed and lost myself in stories. I liked that. Books were safer than other people anyways.

However you must have sensed a lurking 'but' skulking beneath my happy, blithe, and chipper exterior. A minuscule vexation, like the teeniest lump of raw liver sticking to the inside of my boot.

It sounded like a piece of blackboard being dragged over the nails of a wall of severed fingers.

It is sometimes a mistake to climb; it is always a mistake never even to make the attempt.

What do stars do? They shine.

What I say is, a town isn't a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it's got a bookstore it knows it's not fooling a soul.