" ... what can you say about your own book? It always comes through as kind of fatuous self-advertisement. Here's a good thing to say about it: It's a book. Let's keep it that way. As of today, it's a book. Keep this world inside the covers. Do not let it out."
"It is a very important, and, by the same token, interesting book, which may or may not cause controversy. It can be argued about, surely, even if Monty Python did it first, but must we judge the author for doing so? This book is both similar to others and yet different from them, and it is a testament to the writing skills of the author that it manages to encompass the human experience as a whole and yet not get bogged down in details. "Boom goes the dynamite", as they say. And can the lessons learned not be applied to us, as we live our own lives? Prophets shouting terrorism from soapboxes - is this not a parable of our own times, our own fears?
In conclusion, the "lessons" learned should not be taken "lightly", even if they appear - at first glance - superficial. The research the author did to reach this level of realism can be felt on every page, in every vivid description, and this makes this book I want to introduce to you a worthwhile read with many interesting and important aspects."
I have not considered myself as merely weaving a series of supernatural terrors. The event on which the interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty of the situations which it developes; and, however impossible as a physical fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of human passions more comprehensive and commanding than any which the ordinary relations of existing events can yield. [Emphasis mine]
I sat down at my mother's table, waiting for quiet. The table was smooth and worn, heavy and well crafted. My father had made it for her just before he died. I remembered hanging around underfoot when he built it. He didn't mind. Now I sat leaning on it, missing him. I could have talked to him. He had done it three times in his long life. Three clutches of eggs, three times being opened up and sewed up. How had he done it? How did anyone do it?
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