Pack A Pillow And Blanket And See

There Were Times Ruma Felt Closer To Her Mother In Death Than She Had In Life, An Intimacy Born Simply Of Thinking Of Her So Often, Of Missing Her. But She Knew That This Was An Illusion, A Mirage, And That The Distance Between Them Was Now Infinite, Unyielding.

The First Sentence Of A Book Is A Handshake, Perhaps An Embrace. Style And Personality Are Irrelevant. They Can Be Formal Or Casual. They Can Be Tall Or Short Or Fat Or Thin. They Can Obey The Rules Or Break Them. But They Need To Contain A Charge. A Live Current, Which Shocks And Illuminates.

He Tries To Peel The Image From The Sticky Yellow Backing, To Show Her The Next Time He Sees Her, But It Clings Stubbornly, Refusing To Detach Cleanly From The Past.

I've Seen Novels That Have Grown Out Of One Story In A Collection. But It Hasn't Occurred To Me To Take Any Of Those Stories And Build On Them. They Seem Very Finished For Me, So I Don't Feel Like Going Back And Dredging Them Up.

That The Last Two Letters In Her Name Were The First Two In His, A Silly Thing He Never Mentioned To Her But Caused Him To Believe That They Were Bound Together.