“Larry’s such a liar---He tells outrageous lies.He says he’s ninety-nine years oldInstead of only five.He says he lives up on the moon,He says that he once flew.He says he’s really six feet fourInstead of three feet two.He says he has a billion dollars‘Stead of just a dime.He says he rode a dinosaurBack in some distant time.He says his mother is the moonWho taught him magic spells.He says his father is the windThat rings the morning bells.He says he can take stones and rocksAnd turn them into gold.He says he can take burnin’ fireAnd turn it freezin’ cold.He said he’d send me seven elvesTo help me with my chores.But Larry’s such a liar---He only sent me four.”

“Patrick opens his arms about three feet wide and, with one finger pointing up on each hand, tries to show the scope of this thing. I notice that he doesn’t look at his hands as he does this, but at the wall behind me. It suddenly occurs to me that when people describe size this way, they’re relying on perspective to help them. He’s not saying ‘It’s this big.’ He’s saying ‘It would look this big from here if it was over there.”

“But...you could have whatever you wished.""Exactly," he says, nuzzling my neck."But," I say, "you could turn stones to rubies or ride in a fine gentleman's carriage."Kartik puts his hands on either side of my face. "To each his own magic," he says and kisses me again.”

“His hands are saying that he wants to hold her. His feet are saying that he wants to chase after her... He's probably forgotten that I'm here, beside him”

“Did you know Grandfather would give the poems to me?” I ask.“We thought he might,” my mother says.“Why didn’t you stop him?”“We didn’t want to take away your choices,” my mother says.“But Grandfather never did tell me about the Rising,” I say.“I think he wanted you to find your own way,” my mother says. She smiles. “In that way, he was a true rebel. I think that’s why he chose that argument with your father as his favorite memory. Though he was upset when the fight happened, later he came to see that your father was strong in choosing his own path, and he admired him for it.”

“Style is a sort of melody that comes into my sentences by itself. If a writer says what he has to say as accurately and effectively as he can, his style will take care of itself.”