“My name is Kitten and my master is gone. What could possibly be more important?”

“Isn't that what friends do?" It hurt to hear the uncertainty in his voice. "You're my friend Kate, and you're miserable. What could possibly be more important than taking care of you?”

“Hi! My name is Bambi! I like kittens and puppies and throwing flaming balls of death at my enemies!”

“I had wondered a million times how I could possibly go on living when my heart was gone? How was it possible that it still beat in my chest when it felt so empty?”

“Feel free to call me by my first name: Master.”

“The reader reads aloud, with a sing-song up … then down … then down again cadence. My mood shifts from merely reluctant to derisive. It’s a tired reading style. I’m sick of it. It attaches more importance to the words than the words themselves—as they’ve been arranged—could possibly sustain, and it gives poets and poetry a bad name.”