There are no evil thoughts except one; the refusal to think.

Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when without moving from his privacy, Bartleby, in a singular mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.

It is time to float on the waters of the night.  Time to wrap my arms around this book  and press it to my chest, life preserver  in a sea of unremarkable men and women,  anonymous faces on the street,  a hundred thousand unalphabetized things,  a million forgotten hours.

Research the imagination. It was as obsolete as the appendix in most adults, except for those in whom, like the appendix, it became inflamed for no reason.

Written By Patricia A. McKillip

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