Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.
That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.
Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.
He killed himself for wanting to live.
A small but noteworthy note. I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.
The point is, it didn’t really matter what the book was about. It was what it meant that was important.
