What kind of human person has a favorite eraser?

His mind was crowded with memories; memories of the knowledge that had come to them when they closed in on the struggling pig, knowledge that they had outwitted a living thing, imposed their will upon it, taken away its life like a long satisfying drink.

The beast was harmless and horrible; and the news must reach the others as soon as possible.

Kill the pig. Cut her throat. Spill her blood.

Beethoven for listening; Liszt, Chopin, and Beethoven for playing as well as Bach and Prokofiev and so on. If I kept going, this list would spiral. It's as wide as literature; in fact, it is probably wider.

My father was very musical, and music plays quite a large part in my life.

Which is better, law and rescue, or hunting and breaking things up?