“All I need is a badly mangled, irate sentence stalking me.”

“I pinch the sentence's butt with my other hand and tug it from my skin like a leech, smack it back on the page and clamp the book shut. Part of it's hanging out, and it waves jerkily at me with what appears to be blatant hostility. I stick the book back on the upside-down shelf over my head, pissed off sentence first, counting on the gluey base to hold it in. All I need is a badly mangled, irate sentence stalking me.”

“All he has is a mangled ankle. I have Americans.”

“Before I could cry or scream I whirled around and stalked to my bedroom,slamming the door behind me. I hope they all drown."Zoey your mother and I need to speak with you."Great. Clearly they didn't drown.”

“It is the speed, the hot, molten effect, the lava flow of sentence into sentence that I need.”

“I confess to wincing every so often at a poorly chosen word, a mangled sentence, an expression of emotion that seems indulgent or overly practiced. I have the urge to cut the book by fifty pages or so, possessed as I am with a keener appreciation for brevity.”