Hermes smiled. 'I knew a boy once ... Oh, younger than you by far. A mere baby, really.'Hermes ignored them. 'One night, when this boy's mother wasn't watching, he sneaked out of their cave and stole some cattle that belonged to Apollo.'Did he get blasted to tiny pieces?' I asked.'Hmm ... No. Actually, everything turned out quite well. To make up for his theft, the boy gave Apollo an instrument he'd invented-a lyre. Apollo was so enchanted with the music that he forgot all about being angry.'So what's the moral?'The moral?' Hermes asked. 'Goodness, you act like it's a fable. It's a true story. Does truth have a moral?'Um ...'How about this: stealing is not always bad?'I don't think my mom would like that moral.', suggested George. Martha demanded..'I've got it,' Hermes said. 'Young people don't always do what they're told, but if they can pull it off and do something wonderful, sometimes they escape punishment. How's that?

You want proof evolution is for real, don’t waste your time with fossils; just check out the New York City rat. They started out as immigrants, stowaways in some ship’s cargo hold. Only the survivors got to breed, and they’ve been improving with every new litter. Smarter, faster, stronger. Getting ready to rule. Manhattan wouldn’t be the first island they took over.

Hardly had the light been extinguished, when a peculiar trembling beganto affect the netting under which the three children lay.It consisted of a multitude of dull scratches which produced a metallicsound, as if claws and teeth were gnawing at the copper wire. This wasaccompanied by all sorts of little piercing cries.The little five-year-old boy, on hearing this hubbub overhead, andchilled with terror, jogged his brother's elbow; but the elder brotherhad already shut his peepers, as Gavroche had ordered. Then the littleone, who could no longer control his terror, questioned Gavroche, but ina very low tone, and with bated breath:--'Sir?'Hey?' said Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes.'What is that?'It's the rats,' replied Gavroche.And he laid his head down on the mat again.The rats, in fact, who swarmed by thousands in the carcass of theelephant, and who were the living black spots which we have alreadymentioned, had been held in awe by the flame of the candle, so long asit had been lighted; but as soon as the cavern, which was the sameas their city, had returned to darkness, scenting what the goodstory-teller Perrault calls 'fresh meat,' they had hurled themselves inthrongs on Gavroche's tent, had climbed to the top of it, and had begunto bite the meshes as though seeking to pierce this new-fangled trap.Still the little one could not sleep.'Sir?' he began again.'Hey?' said Gavroche.'What are rats?'They are mice.'This explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen white mice inthe course of his life, and he was not afraid of them. Nevertheless, helifted up his voice once more.'Sir?'Hey?' said Gavroche again.'Why don't you have a cat?'I did have one,' replied Gavroche, 'I brought one here, but they ateher.'This second explanation undid the work of the first, and the littlefellow began to tremble again.The dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for the fourth time:--'Monsieur?'Hey?'Who was it that was eaten?'The cat.'And who ate the cat?'The rats.'The mice?'Yes, the rats.'The child, in consternation, dismayed at the thought of mice which atecats, pursued:--'Sir, would those mice eat us?'Wouldn't they just!' ejaculated Gavroche.The child's terror had reached its climax. But Gavroche added:--'Don't be afraid. They can't get in. And besides, I'm here! Here, catchhold of my hand. Hold your tongue and shut your peepers!

Every once in a bestseller list, you come across a truly exceptional craftsman, a wordsmith so adept at cutting, shaping, and honing strings of words that you find yourself holding your breath while those words pass from page to eye to brain. You know the feeling: you inhale, hold it, then slowly let it out, like one about to take down a bull moose with a Winchester .30-06. You force your mind to the task, scope out the area, take penetrating aim, and . . . Read.But instead of dropping the quarry, you find you’ve become the hunted, the target. The projectile has somehow boomeranged and with its heat-sensing abilities (you have raised a sweat) darts straight towards you. Duck! And turn the page lest it drill between your eyes.

I feign knowledge of writing: that I know something about it, that I should have learned something after all these years, that I might know something tomorrow. I read too much and write too little, or write too much and live too little. I have no classical education, no literary degree. I’m not specialized, Hugoed or geniusized; should I be writing at all? In this whole vast world, I’m a female peon sitting here at night wondering what it is I want to say. I aim for fluidity. But no, nix that line, that thought, this life. That’s the crux of it, isn’t it? This life: it’s out of reach. I’m not sure what I’m saying anymore.

He hated heights and rats, and now he had both.

I don't like rats any more than the next bloke, but they ain't wicked and cruel like people can be. They're just ratty in their habits.

The real point is this: We don't know where to go because we don't know what we are. Do you want to go back to living in a sewer-pipe? And eating other people's garbage? Because that's what rats do. But the fact is, we aren't rats anymore. We are something Dr. Schultz has made. Something new.

I’ve had a fountain pen surgically implanted in my left index finger to save trouble. My body is tattooed with line upon line of truth, fiction, and a not-always-pleasing mix of the two.

Don’t cluster tasks on your way. Some tasks would definitely have to be postponed to the next day. You can’t do all things in one day. You can’t chase two rabbits at the same time. Both will escape.